She wore multiple skins, but even so, she had been buried in the snow for some time now and the cold was creeping in. So, she was both happy and afraid when she finally heard the enemy, whooping and coming fast down the steep snowy decline.
She hoped this devilish plan would work as she fell into the first crystal, enacting a white shield about her—at least, that’s what it was supposed to do, and so Connebragh had to trust in it, since she couldn’t see the white glow when she was buried in the snow.
She went to the second crystal then, exciting its magical power, bringing it to its highest point possible, a point beyond anything she had ever experienced.
The mountain goblins were close then, she could hear, but with their ranks still stretching far up the slope.
Connebragh released the magic, released the fireball, and felt the flash of heat despite her serpentine defensive shield. The witch wisely burrowed in deeper, pushing up against a rocky overhang, and just in time, as the entire hillside began to tremble and shudder, a river of snow beginning an inevitable and deadly slide.
Down came the sidhe, tumbling with the avalanche.
Connebragh curled up tighter and yelled, but she couldn’t even hear her own voice as the river of snow roared past, full of tumbling monsters screaming and rolling boulders grumbling.
* * *
“Beyond the mountains lies the promise,” Pixquicauh told the great gathering of warriors. “Beyond the mountains live the enemies of Scathmizzane. No more does Cizinfozza protect them. No more are the souls of their dead haunting the caves and the passes. Our time is come, my brethren.
“We saw Kithkukulikhan bring the short night,” he cried and the gathering cheered. “They say and it’s been told that the wide-winged totot are few in the west, that the high lakes of Tyuskixmal have dried. But I have seen, and Scathmizzane has shown me. The great waters of Ayuskixmal remain, awaiting.
“Let them wait no more! We are called, my brethren, to Ayuskixmal, to the herald Tzatzini, to bring the light of Scathmizzane beyond Teotl Tenamitl!”
He ended with his arms held high, and with the cheers of thousands of xoconai: augurs with their polished mirrors of gold and bags of healing herbs; the mundunugu riders astride their cuetzpali; the anqui deerstalkers with their javelins and soft shoes; the macana footsoldiers in their wooden armor, spiked macana and spears waving.
What a glorious gathering, he thought. What could stop them?
“We will cheer Tonalli awakening from the sea beyond our eastern shore, and pray for her return when she douses her fires to sleep beneath the waves beyond our western shores,” he chanted, and a thousand voices took it up.
The High Priest glanced over to the right-hand side of his pyramid temple’s steps, where the twenty city sovereigns stood. He wanted to see if any remained with doubt.
Perhaps he could have them sacrificed to ensure a greater march, he mused, and smiled at the thought.
That grin didn’t hold, though, for these were elected leaders, and murdering them would cause great distress among the citizens of Tonoloya. The entire preposterous thought flew from his mind even further when he noted another xoconai standing unexpectedly among their ranks, a woman of great reputation who could not be denied.
Noting the look, that woman had the temerity to step forward and cross the empty steps to join Pixquicauh near the center of the stair.
“I would speak with you, if you please, High Priest,” she said, her voice strong and low. She was middle-aged, not very much younger than the old augur, but none looking at the pair would ever guess that. For this woman stood straight and was filled with vitality, her eyes clear and sharp, her muscles solid and hardened by years of adventure and battle.
Before he could answer, Pixquicauh heard the name of this legendary xoconai commander being whispered all throughout the gathering.
“Tuolonatl,” they said. There was no title accompanying the name, as with Pixquicauh, because like Pixquicauh, the name itself served as such. Tuolonatl, hero of the xoconai, a mundunugu unparalleled on cuetzpali or even on horse. Tuolonatl had been a part of every major conflict in Tonoloya for four decades, and of late, her role had become nothing more than signing on as mercenary commander of one city or another that was being threatened by an aggressive neighbor. That act alone had averted three wars, at least, for none desired to fight an army led by Tuolonatl.
And all desired to fight for Tuolonatl.
“Then speak, great mundunugu,” Pixquicauh responded.
But Tuolonatl glanced about and shook her head. “Not here, before all,” she said.
Pixquicauh began to scoff at that, but Tuolonatl quietly added, “I would not embarrass the High Priest of Scathmizzane before this important gathering.”
Under his permanent condoral, Pixquicauh seethed. He considered his options here, one of which would involve an immediate condemnation of this legendary warrior for her impudence. But this was Tuolonatl, and many of those thousands in attendance would follow her across fields of burning coals. Condemning her, even embarrassing her, could prompt an uprising before the army could begin its march up the mountain trails.
Without another word, Tuolonatl turned and started up the steps for the temple entrance.
Trying to appear composed and in control, the High Priest followed.
“You cannot speak to Scathmizzane’s High Priest in such a manner!” Pixquicauh scolded as soon as they were alone inside, the door closed behind them.
“You offered me no choice,” Tuolonatl said simply. “The march must be stopped, and so I must stop the march.”
“Stopped? Did you not see Kithkukulikhan eat the sun?”
“I did. It is Cuowitay, I do not doubt.”
Pixquicauh cocked his head in confusion.
“The wind blows from the north across Teotl Tenamitl,” Tuolonatl explained. “The trails will be clear and then they will not be clear, and you will strand an army in a place where they will find no shelter and no food. You will kill us before a spear of our enemies ever could. I have been there, High Priest, to the high passes. We cannot go until the days grow long once more and the winds blow warm.”
“The way is clear. I have seen,” Pixquicauh insisted.
“The way will not be clear for long enough,” Tuolonatl replied without hesitation. “The mountaintops seem so close, but they are far. I have been. We cannot cross.”
“I am the voice of Scathmizzane,” the High Priest reminded her. “Do you doubt the word of the God-King?”
“I doubt the wisdom of his High Priest in this,” Tuolonatl calmly replied.
No other would have spoken to the High Priest with such aplomb. He fashioned a reply, but before he could begin to argue, Tuolonatl nodded her chin to the back of the room, to the side of the altar, where stood the tall mirror of polished gold.
At first, Pixquicauh thought it a trick of the sunlight, as that glossy surface shimmered and shone. When he realized the truth of it, he, with Tuolonatl close behind, rushed to stand before the magical mirror, arriving just as an image of Scathmizzane filled it.
“Now you will see,” the High Priest whispered to the warrior, who still seemed not at all concerned.
“God-King,” Pixquicauh began, “the army of Glorious Gold stands ready.”
Scathmizzane turned his gaze to regard Tuolonatl. “You question this?” he asked.
“I do, Glorious Gold,” the mundunugu said, and the High Priest gasped audibly.
“How dare…” Pixquicauh started to scold her, but Scathmizzane held up a hand for him to see, motioning him to silence.
“I have been to the mountains in my youth, God-King,” Tuolonatl explained. “I have spent my life, in service to you, in observance of the land, the wind, the seasons. We will not cross Teotl Tenamitl before the snows fall thick about us and in that winter, we are surely lost.”
Scathmizzane did not reply for many heartbeats, then turned to regard Pixquicauh.
“You do not agree?” he
asked.
“This is Cuowitay, the Day of the Xoconai,” the skull-faced augur said. “Even now, the xelquiza do battle with the humans about Tzatzini.”
Outside the temple, the gathered crowd began to cheer wildly, and both Pixquicauh and Tuolonatl turned in surprise.
“I have shown them my image in the mirror you placed atop your temple,” Scathmizzane explained. “Let them not think of conflict, unless it is war for the glory of Scathmizzane.”
“Then we march,” Pixquicauh reasoned.
“No, my loyal augur,” came Scathmizzane’s surprising answer.
Pixquicauh’s shoulders slumped. “God-King…”
“Use the counsel of Tuolonatl,” Scathmizzane instructed. “She has been to the high mountains. She bathes in the light of Scathmizzane.”
Before Pixquicauh could begin to argue, the image in the golden mirror shimmered to nothingness.
“Come, High Priest,” Tuolonatl offered, and there was no taunt in her steady voice. “Let us go and speak of our enemies. The winter will not be long, and the spring will see the first march of the xoconai.”
Pixquicauh followed Tuolonatl out of the temple, two steps behind. He kept glancing back at the golden mirror, uncertain for the first time in many days.
He knew the heart of Scathmizzane, so it was said and so it had been told by the God-King himself. How could he have made this mistake?
* * *
“What is it?” Talmadge asked Aydrian, translating the heart of the questions coming fast at the strange man from the east. Most of the survivors of Carrachan Shoal and the villagers of Fasach Crann crowded around the three outlanders, and they seemed more than a little agitated—rightfully so, but with their scowls aimed right at Aydrian.
“A fight on the mountain,” he said, and Talmadge translated to those gathered.
“Mountain goblins,” he went on, but slowly, so that Talmadge could quickly translate and Khotai could confirm. “Many came against the tribe up there.”
“Deamhan Usgar,” Khotai said to him, and he nodded.
Many voices reached out to Talmadge all at once, and he tried to hush them, then explained to Aydrian, “They hope the sidhe rid them of the deamhan Usgar.”
Aydrian shook his head. He hadn’t seen everything up there on Fireach Speuer, just glimpses, but enough to know that the mountain goblins had been routed there more thoroughly than in Fasach Crann.
“The mountain has quieted,” he said to Talmadge. “I did not glimpse many fallen Usgar, but the sidhe dead are piled.”
Talmadge stood up straight, and his movement brought a silence from the villagers. He turned and somberly informed them.
That brought more anger, more agitation, and more fingers pointing Aydrian’s way.
Talmadge spoke back at all of that, as did Khotai, and Aydrian understood that they were defending him here, telling the villagers that he was no Usgar and no deamhan. Of course, Aydrian understood their anger and trepidation, and wondered if he might have to find a quick way out of this place. Finally, though, Khotai turned about and sighed.
“Talmadge reminded them of your help,” she explained. “And many of them are grateful enough to the strange man in the shiny armor to accept that you are no enemy.”
“But they’ll watch you closely, do’no doubt,” Talmadge said, and he was more serious than lighthearted, even though he was grinning.
Aydrian smiled back at him and nodded. If these villagers, or even Talmadge and Khotai, knew the truth of his past, of the things he had done in all their gory detail, they probably wouldn’t be so accepting.
* * *
The weight of the snow pressed in on her, but they had chosen her location well and it would not crush her or suffocate her, she knew. It would not kill her.
But the cold would.
Connebragh could feel it seeping into her bones. Her toes and fingers burned as if a thousand fiery needles were being stuck into them. She had tried to call upon the crystals again, enacting a shield, even bringing forth some flames. But that had only settled the snow more fully upon her, and had left her wet and miserable.
She could breathe, her face remained clear, though pressed uncomfortably against the stone, but that didn’t matter.
Because the cold seeped in, taking the warmth of her life bit by bit.
She heard the muffled screaming nearby, but she was too far gone then to even realize that these were the death screams of those sidhe that had survived the avalanche. The Usgar were upon them, as they lay helpless and broken in the piled snow, finishing them off with spear thrusts.
It didn’t matter to Connebragh. All that mattered was the cold, and the sleep it invited.
A bright light shone in her face. She thought it Usgar welcoming her to the eternity of Corsaleug.
A hand roughly grabbed her and hauled her out of the snow, and she was up there, lying on the pile, for many gasping breaths before she even realized that she was still alive, that the warriors had found her.
They didn’t tend her, though. Not then. She heard them all about, calling out that another monster sidhe had been found and was still alive.
Not for long.
She heard the discussions, but barely registered them.
“A great victory,” one man declared. “Only seven dead, and the many wounded already mending. Glory to the Usgar-triath. Glory to the Usgar-righinn.”
“And the sidhe bodies will pile high and make a great fire.”
“A pity you can’no eat the things,” said a woman Connebragh could not see.
“Fifteen sidhe dead by Tay Aillig’s hand,” the first man said.
“Thrice that number dead by this lass alone!” the woman said back at him, and it wasn’t until she knelt near and stroked Connebragh’s hair that the half-frozen Connebragh even realized that the woman had been speaking about her, about her avalanche that had worked so well in laying low the sidhe flanking force.
“We won?” asked Connebragh, still not opening her eyes, for the light stung her so badly. “The encampment is secured?”
“Aye, and let us get you near a fire,” the woman replied. She yelled to some men to help her.
A few moments later, Connebragh was lifted from the ground. Finally, she opened her eyes and glanced about the shining white hillside.
The Usgar warriors were finishing their gruesome work—she saw a sidhe dug out of the snow and hauled up within a circle of warriors. She saw the look on the monster’s face, one of stark terror, as the warriors began to prod it with their spears, all of them smiling.
They would take their time.
Connebragh looked at her frozen hands and was surprised to see that they were not covered in blood. She shook that thought away immediately, though, reminding herself that these were monsters, and that they had attacked the Usgar, not the other way around. And she, Connebragh, had killed many of them—more than two score if the woman’s claim was to be believed.
Usgar-righinn Mairen would be pleased.
Usgar-triath Tay Aillig would be pleased.
14
THE VIEW FROM YESTERYEAR
There was … nothing.
No firmament against her back or hands.
No light—more than that, the absolute absence of light, a darkness more profound, more endless, than anything ever imagined.
No sound, no magic song.
No pain, no warmth, no cold.
No wind, no breath.
No dreams.
No thought but emptiness.
And a fear that this was eternal death that barely registered in the woman’s nothingness.
She existed and she did not, caught somewhere between life and death, without consciousness, except that it was there, somewhere unknown, chewing at the dark and pervading unconsciousness.
So, it went, through days and nights that did not exist here, in this emptiness, in this fugue state.
A lick of chill tickled her neck. She thought it the coldness of death, surely. She wa
s dead, of course she was dead! How could she not be?
The fall.
The impact.
Conscious thought. A sense of self.
There was more beyond the grave!
But she had no body. She could feel no body. She opened her eyes, or did she, for there was no light, not a speck, not a hint.
Aoleyn, she thought. I am Aoleyn. I was Aoleyn. I am dead.
She heard a whisper in her mind, a gentle call, My child!
Elara, she somehow knew. The mother she had never known.
Elara, who was long dead. In this place of emptiness.
Aoleyn, said another whisper in her mind, one she certainly recognized.
Seonagh, who was dead, who had been broken by the fossa in her efforts to save Aoleyn, and had then been given to Craos’a’diad, the Mouth of Usgar.
Help us, my child, Elara’s spirit imparted to her. We are leaving. We can’no stay.
Diminishing, Seonagh added. The demon fossa has no grasp to hold us.
Cizinfozza, the ghost of Elara thought, and Aoleyn heard, and knew it to be a demon name.
The others are gone, my child. All gone. And we are leaving. We can’no stay.
There came a sharp crackle and a flash of lightning, from directly underneath Aoleyn, though she did not feel it. It jolted her body a bit from the floor, and when she settled, she lay at a slightly different angle.
She did not understand. She felt nothing beneath her back.
“Why?” Aoleyn asked, and audibly with her voice, and she heard! She was alive! She could feel the stone floor against the back of her head, could feel the brush of her hair—and the scrape of it against her cheek. Dried blood, she thought.
She brought her hand up to move the hair aside.
No, she did not.
She could not.
She could feel nothing except … could feel nothing below the sensation of the cold floor on the back of her neck. That and the general chill. So cold.
But no more like the cold of death, she thought. This was the bite of winter on her face and ears and neck. Physical, not spiritual.
Help us! she heard both of the spirits scream in her mind.
Reckoning of Fallen Gods Page 21