And so he went through the vast city, and late that afternoon, he entered the throne room of the great temple with two dozen porters in tow, each pair of them carrying a heavy wrapped parcel.
The God-King smiled at him. “My child returns,” Scathmizzane said, and the mere sound of his melodic voice brought a great warmth to the old augur, and to everyone else in the room, he could tell from their smiles, and even the mere posture of the other augurs, whose faces he could not see behind their condorals. The sound was simply so uplifting that none could help but be joyful.
“Come forward,” Scathmizzane bade him, and he moved to stand before the dais. When he arrived and bowed low, Scathmizzane said, “What have you borne to this sacred place?”
“Gifts, God-King,” he answered. “The gifts you desire.” He turned and motioned to the two nearest porters, who quickly complied by laying their parcel upon the floor and pulling back the wrappings to reveal a stack of a half-dozen shining sheets of polished gold, expertly crafted and gleaming in the few shafts of sunlight that permeated this chamber (or perhaps the light was emanating from Scathmizzane, the Glorious Gold, himself).
On another motion from the old augur, the porters lifted the top sheet and tilted it up on end, showing it to be a full-length mirror.
“Seventy-one?” the God-King asked his High Priest.
“Seventy-two,” the old augur answered. “One for each of your temples, and the finest for the eyes of Glorious Gold alone.”
Scathmizzane laughed, a beautiful airy laugh that echoed around the room and once again widened the smiles of all in attendance. It struck the old augur how at ease were the porters, common men and women all, and at how brilliant the reds and blues of their facial skin seemed to glow in the presence of this great being.
“I need no mirror for myself,” Scathmizzane said. “I see myself in the eyes of my servants, and need no better view.”
The augur bowed low, but he did not fear that he had disappointed his deity.
“Take the last one, my servant, to your old temple, on the far foothills, and consecrate it. You will place one atop, of course, to follow Tonalli’s flight each day, but this will be your second, set inside the temple, beside your altar, before the grand mural of the line of Dayan. That place in its humbleness shall be known as my greatest temple of them all.”
The old augur nearly fell over at that pronouncement, yet another commendation of his ancestral fealty.
“The greatest until…” Scathmizzane added teasingly.
The old augur was confused for just a brief moment, then remembered his station as High Priest, and realized that Glorious Gold had just confirmed a plan to him of reclamation and renewal.
“I will bear the mirror personally over Teotl Tenamitl, God-King,” he replied, and his heart was so full at that moment that he believed he could indeed make that journey, bearing the heavy item.
“One priest to each pair of porters,” Scathmizzane told them all. “In your hearts, you know the way, that these shining sheets of glory are placed at the top of the pyramids at each of my temples. Go now with all haste.”
The gathering went into sudden motion, but it was quite organized and efficient, for indeed the voice of Scathmizzane rang in the heads and hearts of the augurs as they each gathered up their pair of porters, knowing exactly the road before them.
Pixquicauh knew, too, that he was to depart the city, back to his temple. He would not continue from there, however, and so a second priest joined him and his chosen porters, to carry on from that location.
Winter was coming. These shining symbols of the Glorious Gold would show the way when the passes of Teotl Tenamitl began to open once more.
* * *
“Many will die to the snow and the freezing winds before they ever cross the parapet,” a young and swift macana named U’at remarked to Halfizzen, the augur overseeing this mission.
The pair stood on a high ridge, overlooking a long and narrow valley. Down below, the valley floor was dotted with tents and lean-tos, and shorter, thicker forms milled all about. Mountain goblins, the children of Scathmizzane, corrupted with the blood of the children of Cizinfozza, had gathered to the call in numbers rarely seen. Seven hundred strong, they filled the valley, and even from here, the watching xoconai could detect their anxiety and unease. They seemed as if they would simply bust out of the canyon, or murder each other trying.
“Their purpose is to die,” Halfizzen replied. “Their only hope of salvation is to give their lives in fealty to the Glorious Gold, else the darkness of Cizinfozza will consume their eternity. Even to the snow and the wind should they fall, it will be with purpose.”
U’at, who had been to Tzatzini, the Herald, and indeed had been in battle with a strong human there upon the mountain and had barely escaped, surely understood. He looked to the west, toward the ancient temple of the old augur, on whose commands he had set out to the east, and to whom he was expected to return.
The pair watched as other xoconai passed them on either side, moving in lines, riding their sure-footed cuetzpali down the steep and rocky slope with ease.
“They will deliver the word,” Halfizzen remarked. “They will tell the xelquiza the path to their salvation.”
“And if the half-bloods do not hear?” U’at dared ask.
“Most will hear. What choice is before them? And those who do not accept the truth will become the sacrifices for the victory of those who do.”
U’at smiled and nodded, glancing down at the gathered army of the brutish xelquiza. Most would hear, and so would slaughter any who did not, which meant, of course, that even more would suddenly see the light of the Glorious Gold.
Few fights erupted among the disparate mountain goblins that day in the valley, and those that did were ended quickly and efficiently and with severe finality. In the trailing lines of the westering sun, the half-blood force broke ranks and began its march up the Tyuskixmal slopes of Teotl Tenamitl, a few dozen xoconai observers trailing upon their beautiful and deadly lizard mounts.
“Soon, they will crest the peak,” the augur Halfizzen said to U’at, “and rush like the flood of the God-King down the other side, the bringers of death, the forebears of doom.”
* * *
The High Priest of Scathmizzane reached his weathered temple in the foothills of Teotl Tenamitl some days later. He watched the porters scaling the sides of the small pyramid to place one of the divine golden mirrors as instructed at its apex.
And when they had, it seemed to Pixquicauh as if the temple itself had shed some of the ravages of time. The edges of the rounded blocks of the pyramid appeared straighter once more, and sharp-cornered, and the whole of the place seemed quietly limned in golden light.
On sudden inspiration, the old augur moved past the returning porters and himself scaled the side of the pyramid, confident that the God-King would not let him fall.
He neared the pinnacle mirror, nodded appreciatively at the care the porters had taken in setting it in place, large stones tight about the base so that the winter winds would not topple it.
He reached the apex easily, a climb he knew he could not have made mere days before, when the pathetic child, not the true Glorious Gold, had sat upon the golden throne. Somehow, the emergence of Scathmizzane and the God-King’s kiss had given him renewed strength and energy. Arriving, he looked at his reflection in the golden mirror. He felt as if he must look younger. He could not see his face, of course, since the front of the skull of the apostate augur had been fused upon it.
With great reverence and trembling hands, Pixquicauh grasped the edges of that condoral, thinking to remove it.
He paused.
Scathmizzane had put it there.
His name had been Dayan-Zahn, but was now Pixquicauh, a name given to him by Scathmizzane. He would never use his old name again. And this was his face, a visage of bone and bulging dead eyes, given to him by Scathmizzane. He would never use his old face again.
He peered more closely into th
e golden mirror. His hair seemed thicker, shining more silvery and less dull gray. And fewer wrinkles did he see along his temples and those parts of his jowls visible around the edge of the death-mask.
He sought behind the teeth of the skull, but he could not see his own teeth, and when he talked, as he did then, praying for guidance to Scathmizzane, he realized that the condoral mouth did not move with his words, but neither did any real mouth he might have had behind the mask. Did he even still have his old mouth and teeth?
When last did you eat, my child? rang a voice in his head.
Pixquicauh paused and gasped. He didn’t eat much anymore. Food had long ago lost its flavor to him, but only now, before the mirror, did he realize that he had not eaten anything, anything at all, nor had he sipped wine or water, in many days. Too many days!
He should be dead, but he was not, nor was he hungry or thirsty.
“Glorious Gold,” he whispered, and cried.
He lingered more than he should, staring at his new face, at the image that showed him to be more than a mere mortal xoconai. Finally, he reminded himself of humility more than once, more than a dozen times, but still he stared and pondered.
He knew not how much time had passed when at last he became so satisfied, so humbled, so grateful to his ancestors for imbuing upon him the power of unflinching faith, that he turned to climb back down.
He heard a voice in his head once more, and this time, less preoccupied with his own image, he recognized it as the whisper of Scathmizzane.
He spun back to the mirror, delighted once more as he came to fully understand this newest miracle. For these were more than shining badges to mark the temples of the God-King. They were portals of clairaudience, through which Scathmizzane would call to his augurs, and they, in turn, would relay to his children.
Pixquicauh noticed then lines of xoconai walking the trails about his temple, coming to see the shining golden mirror, to bathe in the beauteous light of Scathmizzane, and to listen to … him.
Truly to hear him, for perhaps the very first time, to comprehend his homily as never before.
To ready for the renewal, for the expansion of Tonoloya, the nation of the xoconai, from sea to shining sea.
He looked into the mirror again, and his reflection faded, replaced by an image of what would be, he realized.
He saw the trails about his temple, all through the foothills. He saw the great army of xoconai, under waving golden banners, lines and lines of lizard riders with shining lances, lines and lines of walking warriors, beating their macana against skin drums, the western slopes of Teotl Tenamitl echoing with the cadence of the army, with the mighty fist of the Glorious Gold.
Tears flowed freely then down his face. His auguries, his father’s visions, his grandfather’s prophecies, would all be realized.
The march for renewal, the march to war.
10
USGAR-TRIATH
He felt as if his arms weighed as much as boulders. He could find no strength, no energy, no reason.
Though the sun was shining above him once more, his world was dark now, and without hope.
The deamhan Usgar had taken Aoleyn from him.
The sun was up in the sky, but would it ever really shine for him again? He was nothing now, without friends, without hope. He was a slave, only a slave, ever a slave, until he worked himself to death. He was not Bahdlahn anymore, either, he believed, and the pit inside of him grew deeper and darker.
No, he was Thump again, just Thump, and to be anything but, to hint at anything more, meant that he would be horribly tortured and surely murdered—probably thrown into the same pit that had taken Aoleyn!
But that Usgar deamhan knew the truth of Bahdlahn.
Bahdlahn chewed his lip, trying to come to terms with this new reality. The Usgar named Aghmor knew. Was he to trust this deamhan?
“I am strong,” he whispered, nodding, thinking that he was stronger than Aghmor, certainly. Perhaps he could throw the Usgar off a cliff, or into the same hole where they had murdered Aoleyn.
“Yes,” he decided, but hearing the word aloud brought him a fit of panic. If he killed this deamhan Aghmor, where would that leave him?
Alone.
Alone and working until he died, or until he slipped and revealed himself to the deamhans and they murdered him.
The day was cold, very cold, but Bahdlahn felt a sweat upon him as he lay in his hidey-hole, staring at nothing. The air was crisp and dry, but he felt like it was suffocating him, closing in on him, holding him there in a state of helplessness and emptiness.
He gasped aloud when he heard movement just outside, and held the breath that wouldn’t come when the branch-fashioned door was pulled aside and Aghmor’s face appeared. The Usgar nodded and moved in enough to sit at the entrance, half-in, half-out, for the space was not large. He brought his arm around and dropped a bundle at Bahdlahn’s side.
“Food,” he explained. “Make it last a few days. My tribe is breaking camp tomorrow and will climb to the winter plateau, not far from here.”
Bahdlahn forced himself to sit up and nodded.
“I will get you away from here before they arrive,” Aghmor added, surprising him. “I have found a cave, not so far away, where you can huddle through the winter. I will bring you food when I can—you will have to forage some, perhaps.”
“Why?” Bahdlahn didn’t even know where to begin. What was this surprising Usgar even talking about?
“We must get you away,” said Aghmor. “This is likely our last chance.”
“Why?” Bahdlahn asked again, but mostly because he couldn’t find his sensibilities enough to form any other words.
“They will know you. And they will kill you. Even if they do not discover the truth of Thump, they will not keep you alive much longer. You are strong. You are a threat. Tay Aillig is not merciful and the Usgar will be his. We can move you now, before they arrive on the winter plateau, and hide you until the winter season breaks. By that time, perhaps they will have forgotten Thump, and so you will get down the mountain.”
Bahdlahn winced at that, remembering Tay Aillig’s overt threat to him not so long ago.
“Why?” he asked a third time. “Why are you helping me?”
Aghmor’s expression revealed to Bahdlahn that the man didn’t even seem sure of any answer. “Aoleyn,” he finally decided. “She’d want you to live, and to live free. I will make the Usgar believe that you were killed by some animal, or that sidhe creature you chased off. Oh, but they’ll hunt you to make sure, but they’ll not be finding you, not before the snows come deep and strand them upon the winter plateau. In the dark of winter, they will forget you, and then you can leave.”
Bahdlahn didn’t reply, other than to stare, as he tried to wind his thoughts through this shocking development. He still didn’t trust this Usgar, of course, but if the man had wanted him killed, he certainly wouldn’t need to go to these lengths.
He could have just let Bahdlahn go over that ridge atop the mountain, to be thrown into the pit after Aoleyn.
Eventually, Bahdlahn managed a nod.
* * *
Aghmor did not leave the cave where he had hidden Bahdlahn feeling better about the situation, or even remotely confident that he could pull off his plans for the uamhas. He remained determined to try, though, and every time he replayed in his mind the image of poor Aoleyn going into that chasm, it strengthened his resolve a bit more.
That image haunted him, night and day.
He came down to the winter plateau and started to cross, when a shaky old voice called out to him from across the way.
“I will know the darkness,” said Elder Raibert.
Aghmor turned to see the man standing in the doorway of his hut, or rather, slumped against the side of the jamb. He moved over quickly to stand before Raibert, offered a hand to help.
“Why?” Raibert laughed at him, feebly, slowly, waving the offered hand aside.
“I’ll be helping you to your b
ed,” Aghmor explained.
“The darkness is there. The light is coming, but I’ll not see it!”
Aghmor stared at him curiously. The man sometimes seemed quite confused, after all, but this was somehow different. He noted that Raibert wasn’t looking at him at all, but was looking past him. He glanced over his shoulder, but nothing was there, and yet the man kept staring off, nodding, grimacing, shaking his head, mumbling.
“The spring of the swarm,” Raibert said.
“The swarm?”
“Covering the mountains, covering Fireach Speuer.”
“What swarm?”
“Numbers beyond count! Riding, marching … the dragon flying…”
“What darkness, old man?” Aghmor yelled, grabbing Raibert and shaking him.
“Darkness?” Raibert answered directly, his face locked in a seemingly maniacal grin. “No, none. No darkness. The light. The swarm of sunlight!”
“What nonsense do you speak?”
“Nonsense?” Raibert began to laugh then, wheezing and coughing with every sharp and mocking chuckle.
“Now I see,” the Elder remarked, his gaze drifting past Aghmor again. “At last and in the last!” He shouted with surprising strength, and he grabbed back at Aghmor powerfully, more so than the man would ever have believed possible.
“Now, at last I see, and only in this last moment.”
Elder Raibert slumped into Aghmor’s arms. The man shook him and demanded an answer.
But the dead do not speak.
After settling Raibert’s body upon his bed and covering him with blankets, Aghmor started fast down the mountain to report the great event. The Elder of Usgar, the Usgar-forfach, was dead. That would open a path for Tay Aillig, perhaps, unless Ahn’Namay could claim the title and stop him.
Strangely, Aghmor found that he didn’t care. This death would alter the tribe, surely, but to no better way, as far as he could tell, whatever might happen next.
A steady snow began to fall as he made his way, slowing him, slickening the ground, chilling him.
Reckoning of Fallen Gods Page 15