War of Gods, page 5
part #3 of Paternus Series
“Close enough. Bitter times they were for the watoto, even without the wars. Father was not around for much of the first, as Khagan had discovered him in a patersleep and cast him into a deep crevasse, then sealed it with dark earthen sorcery.
“We Deva did the best we could to protect the watoto in his absence, but Khagan, Kleron and their minions had set their minds to wiping most of them out, taking the rest as slaves, and conquering the world for Firstborn alone. The war was waged over the entire planet and went on for centuries. By the time Father escaped from Tartarus, most of the humans were gone.
“In the end, the largest force of Asura yet gathered had a thousand or so of the remaining watoto surrounded. Those of us there, including Mokosh and Myrddin Wyllt, Brygun and Trejgun, and others you have met, fought the beasts off, but then Khagan himself took to the field, and we were certain all was lost.
“Father, Munin and Hugin arrived just in time – Hugin was still with us then – and they brought reinforcements. Instead of engaging Khagan then and there, however, Father gathered the watoto, all holding hands, and he and The Ravens slipped them to this world, where no mortals had ever lived, and left them in the care of Yggdrasil. He slipped back, and by then The Prathamaja Nandana had arrived.
“The battle was still not going well, even with Pratha having wiped out many thousands of the enemy, and Father did not have Gungnir at the time – Arges had yet to forge it – but fought with an axe of copper hue. It was not enough. With so many of his Deva children lying dead or mortally wounded, he did something he had never done before and has not done since. He loosed the fiercest weapon Pratha ever crafted: the Shudarshana Chakra.
“Through the enemy it flew. Nothing could stop it. By the time the disk returned to Father’s fingertips, nearly the entire Asura force had been laid to waste.”
“Wait,” says Fi. “Shudarshana – isn’t that one of the things Tanuki and Baphomet took when they escaped?”
Freyja nods with a scowl, then continues. “Kleron slipped Baphomet and Max away, and other Asura as well. But Khagan had been too far away from them when the disk was unleashed, and so he remained. He was swift and accomplished enough to keep from losing his head, but the Chakra split his face, leaving a gaping, smoking ruin. Still he fought on, striking out with his pitchfork, spouting his foul magic – along with blood, teeth, and gobbets of flesh. It took Pratha and Father together to overpower him. Father got behind him, arms locked around his neck. It took an hour for The Beast of the Land to fall to his knees, more to collapse, and longer to grow still. While Father wept, Pratha dragged Khagan’s body to a volcano and pitched him in, where he was cremated in magma and flame. Or so we thought.
“The remaining Asura scattered or were slain, and the First Holocaust was won, though at great cost. We’d lost hundreds of thousands of Deva in that war, great and ancient warriors all. Eventually, the humans who’d survived came out of hiding, the world warmed again, and the repopulation of the earth began. There had been great civilizations up until the war. Afterward, it was a stone age once more.”
Peter keeps up with them at a distance, kicking rocks and moving tall grass with his feet, a sad frown on his face. Ganesh wanders nearby, quietly blessing sickly plants and fluttering insects.
“After the wounded were tended to and the fallen honored, Father returned to Asgard,” Freyja continues, “but he did not take the people back to our world. Against the chance another Firstborn civil war might break out, he embarked on a grand experiment to breed a very special army. He recruited some of us to aid in the effort.”
A screeching caw splits the air. Peter checks the sky. A black speck circles high above. He whispers, “Munin.” The speck vanishes, and on a nearby stone a creature all of black appears, feathers shining in the sunlight. He looks exactly like Hugin, not much over a foot tall, half monkey, half crow, with the sharp upper half of a beak for a nose. He’s not as ratty as Hugin, though, and doesn’t have the metal plates in his head and chest, or the malevolent gleam in his eyes. Fi remembers, too, that Hugin had black eyes, and Munin’s are brown.
“My Raven Son,” Peter says, “if you only knew how good it is to see you.” Munin crosses his little monkey-arms, a disapproving look on his monkey-like face, and looks away. “Now Munin, don’t be like that—” but Munin is suddenly on his shoulder and the two of them disappear.
“What the—!” Fi exclaims, and they hear someone screaming. A tiny dot, high in the sky, plummets downward. Peter, flailing and shrieking. He hits the ground face down with a mighty thump, throwing up clods and dust, sinking halfway into the hard-packed soil.
Fi has her hand to her mouth as he pushes himself up – but he’s laughing. Before he can get to his feet, there’s a flash of black, Munin grips his shirt in the claws of his bird-feet, and they’re gone again.
There’s more shrieking from above, but this time it sounds like laughter. Before Peter hits the ground, Munin has him, and they’re back in the clouds once more. And they do it again.
Ganesh chuckles. “Oh my, that Munin. He and his brother were not born of the creatures we saw above, so you know, but one of the earliest species of corvid on our world.”
Freyja clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “They could be at this for some time. Their favorite game, that. Come along. Someone’s got to take this business seriously.” She strikes out once again for The Tree.
Fi watches a bit longer.
“Boys will be boys,” Ganesh says cheerfully, wagging his head, then follows Freyja.
Fi catches up to Freyja, who continues her history lesson.
“Over the course of five myria, Father’s army trained, explored the lands of Asgard, and sailed the oceans, honing their skills in fighting, orienteering, tracking, and all things having to do with war. Arges and Myrddin Wyllt made them the finest arms and armor any force had ever known, or ever will. Itching for battle, they hunted the beasts of the mountains, fought amongst themselves, and some had the gall to antagonize us Elder Firstborn. We allowed it, within reason, though we taught them hard lessons from time to time. It made those who survived that much stronger.
The greatest among them still live on in the old stories. All spoiled brats, if you ask me. Quick of temper, violent, cruel, and proud. Some died at each other’s hands.” Freyja sighs. “But some were all right, I suppose. Freyr and Baldr were rather nice.” She looks as if she misses them all, regardless of how troublesome they were.
“The worst among them were severely punished and exiled for their crimes,” she points past The Tree, “deep in the mountains beyond. Imprisoned in caverns that came to be known as Helheim, for their warden was Hel herself, daughter of Loki and sorceress of dark power and cruel appetites.
“Bred for war, trained for it from birth, those who survived and remained free became the mightiest fighting force the worlds have ever known. These were the Aesir of Asgard. Among them, handpicked and further trained by me alone, were the Valkyries.”
A laugh and a caw come from across the plain. Peter throws Munin like a football – and he’s got one hell of an arm. Munin launches as if fired from a cannon, wings held tight against his body, then vanishes and appears back in Peter’s hands so they can do it again.
Freyja shakes her head and continues her story. “Then, the thing Father had feared most came to pass. Kleron amassed an army nearly equal to that of Khagan and declared war once again in his old master’s name. We Elders lamented, but the Aesir rejoiced. They were more than ready for war.
“But Kleron, having learned from his master’s mistakes and counseled by Baphomet, carried out his campaign in a different manner. He preferred the tactics of what is now called guerrilla warfare over open field battle. We took the Aesir when and where we could, but the enemy was often gone when we arrived. Kleron’s forces not only slaughtered the watoto, he spread plague among them with his bite.
“As the war drew on, the Homo rhodesiensis, as scientists call them today, were lost in Asia. The Homo erectus in Africa were next, and finally even the strong and proud Neanderthals in greater Europe. Small enclaves remained hidden in remote locations, but they eventually died off as well. Some of those lost had interbred with other members of the Homo genus, until nearly all who remained were Homo sapiens – though at the end of the war, there were only ten thousand of them.
“Researchers today blame the periods of global cold for these ‘bottlenecks’ in human evolution that occurred seventy and twenty thousand years ago. We know better. It was war.”
Freyja appears lost in memories of long ago. Emerging from her inner thoughts, she says, “Finally, as the glaciers waned, Kleron gathered all his armies on the flats of Megiddo, what we called the Vigrid Plain, and the final battle was begun.”
“Ragnarok,” says Fi.
“The end of the world, they call it. It nearly was. Even with all the greatest Deva warriors who had survived the First Holocaust assembled, we were losing once again. So far and wide did the battle spread that wherever Pratha and the strongest of us were not, the enemy would batter our forces down. Kleron would slip his mightiest troops away then bring them back in another part of the field. And he himself was a force to be reckoned with, wreaking havoc with fire and ice. The Aesir called him Surtr.
“With the forces of Kleron finally amassed, Father came for the full contingent of Aesir. Heimdall blew his mighty Gjallarhorn and all the might of Asgard, over a hundred thousand strong, gathered here on the Bifrost Plain.”
Whatever sadness Freyja held earlier has left her voice. She speaks with determination and pride. Fi tries to imagine what it must have been like, with all those warriors right where she’s standing, preparing to go into battle with gods and monsters.
Freyja says, “Munin slipped a portion of the Aesir force, including chariots, foot soldiers, and troops mounted on horseback, all clinging or tethered to one another, all at a full run and shouting for blood. Hugin transported another, with Father in the lead upon his flying steed, Sleipnir.” Her voice softens. “And that’s when Hugin betrayed us. He released his force over a great chasm. Nearly half of them fell.” Her voice rises again. “But the remaining Aesir were delivered to Midgard by The World Tree itself, utilizing its interdimensional root system and a special ability held only by Heimdall to create what we had come to call the Bifrost Bridge, and they showed the enemy what they were truly made of. Whatever else we might say, we were proud of them, and in the end, the day was ours.”
Fi tries to comprehend the sheer magnitude of it all. She can’t wait to tell Zeke. He’s going to lose his shit.
Freyja takes a breath, her own inner vision of the battle fading. “The Second Holocaust didn’t last as long as the first, but it was more devastating. By the end, few more than what you have seen of the Deva remained.
“Don’t you dare tell anyone I said it, but there is no denying it. If it weren’t for Father’s grand experiment, the Aesir would never have existed. We would have lost that war, and there would be no human beings left today. They fought valiantly, all. Never backing down. Never stopping. Never questioning their purpose or the will of the All-father. Only twelve of them survived, including a few of my Valkyries. Can you imagine? Twelve out of a hundred thousand. Once the most celebrated of heroes, now disgraced.”
“The petit gods?” Fi asks, though she’s fairly certain she already knows the answer.
“The petit gods.”
Further along, Ganesh joins them and they swim the river. Freyja skims over the surface on her back like an otter, even while holding her cane, and Ganesh bobs across as if he’s made of cork, using his trunk like a paddle. Strong as the current is, and as poor a swimmer as Fi’s always been, she makes it to the opposite bank without making a complete fool of herself. She’s last, of course, but she likes to think it’s because she had to keep her uncle’s urn above water. Freyja doesn’t hesitate to point out, “Your form is terrible,” but at least she adds, “Strong stroke, though. Some potential there.”
Another mile and they enter the shade of The Tree’s branches. Stress Fi didn’t know she was experiencing melts from her shoulders as she gapes at the impossible expanse of boughs far overhead. “This is... I have no words.”
“None do,” Ganesh replies.
“A fully sapient plant-like life form,” says Freyja. “The only one of its kind.”
“And the first of our kind,” Ganesh adds.
Peter appears next to them with Munin on his shoulder, startling Fi. “Oh God,” she exclaims. “Please don’t do that.”
“You’ll get used to it,” says Peter, invigorated by his romp with Munin, but Munin scowls at Freyja and Ganesh. They offer their greetings but receive only a curt nod in return. Munin’s eyes meet Fi’s and narrow further. “Munin,” says Peter, “this is Fiona Megan Patterson, your youngest sister. Fi, meet Munin, The Raven.”
Fi raises a hand. “Hi Munin.”
Munin appraises her, an unreadable expression on his little monkey-face. He’s a strange-looking critter, Fi thinks, but there’s depth and intelligence in his big brown eyes. The wisdom of ages, and suffering, too.
Munin whispers in Peter’s ear, so softly Fi can’t hear. Peter says, “She is pretty, isn’t she?” Munin’s eyes go wide and he tries to cover Peter’s mouth with his little hands. When Peter tries to mumble through them, Munin uses a wing. Peter pushes them away. “What are you doing? It’s perfectly all right to compliment your sister.” Munin is mortified.
Fi says, “Thank you. You’re kind of cute yourself.”
He blushes, or has become constipated, it’s hard to tell on his tiny dark features, then hops from Peter’s shoulder, flaps his wings, and vanishes.
“He’s... different,” says Fi.
“That’s one way to put it,” Freyja responds. “But he’s quite lovely, once you get to know him.”
“An old and kind soul,” says Ganesh. “If a bit sensitive.”
Peter says, “Hugin’s betrayal took a great toll on him. He hasn’t been the same since. He was with me when I brought the petit gods here, but I didn’t know this is where he’d decided to spend his days of late.”
“You should have,” Freyja admonishes.
Peter frowns in shame, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Yes. I should have known many things.”
“You have told him Hugin still lives,” Ganesh observes.
Looking off toward the ocean, Peter replies, “I have.” After an uncomfortable silence, he waves toward The Tree. “Let’s go say hello.”
They proceed toward the base of the tree, which is still quite a ways even beneath its branches, and mount a rise that may have once been a pavilion of some sort, but is now little more than a hill. This close, the trunk is more like a mountain of bark, the rough knees Fi had seen from a distance the size of skyscrapers. Whole towns could fit between them. She looks more closely at the trees of the forest. They’re enormous by earth standards, but also appear to be connected to Yggdrasil by roots that cut out of the ground like serpents, or form knees that dive back down at the base of each tree, creating one great forest system, all connected, much like pictures of banyan tree colonies she’s seen.
Peter notices her attention. “Yggdrasil is neither male nor female. It can grow offspring from its roots rhizomatically but also produce seeds through apomixis, as well as both fertilize and be fertilized by other trees. It flowers only once every hundred years.”
“A splendid sight beyond description,” says Ganesh. “And the smell is heavenly.”
Freyja says, “It bears fruit that provides all the nourishment any creature needs, and lasts for decades in storage. The people here had farms, orchards and livestock aplenty, but Yggdrasil’s fruit was precious, delicious, and revered.”
There’s movement at the foot a ridge to the right, nearer to the forest. A hulking figure with a bald head but shaggy fur on its shoulders, the rest of its body covered in wrinkled gray skin. As far away as it is, Fi can still tell it must be eight feet tall. Tusks jut up from its jaw, and it has a rough metal sword at its belt and a stone axe strapped to its back. Another creature of the same species, only slightly shorter, joins it.
Freyja pounds her cane on the ground and a growl forms in her throat.
“Ogres,” says Ganesh, “of a kind.”
The taller one scratches a tuft of fur on its chin, then sniffs with its splayed snout. Its eyes jerk to the hill where Fi and the others stand, just as Peter says, “Gungnir.” The spear springs to size in Peter’s hand, gleaming gold and sparking with current.
The ogre grunts in alarm and the smaller one squeals like a wild hog. They bolt back to where they came from. More squealing is heard as well as roared orders in a crude language. Dozens of ogres come riding out atop strange furry mounts, even more running on foot, all heavily armed – but they keep going, as fast as their steeds and feet can carry them, off into the woods.
“Pray, let them go,” says Ganesh. “They can do us no harm.”
“They cannot be suffered to remain on Asgard,” says Freyja.
“There have been no ogres here for many myria,” says Peter. “Someone must have brought them.”
“What were those things they were riding?” Fi asks. “They looked like giant possums.”
“Those would be giant possums,” Peter replies flatly.
“Oh.”
There is no wind, but a sound like gusts through a forest, rising and falling in pitch, comes from above – partly the moaning of ghosts, but also a song of angels. Leaves tap and scrape together and branches creak in a decipherable rhythm and melody. Fi realizes it’s a language, though unlike any she’s ever heard or will likely hear again.
“They came with Kleron,” it says. “With Maskim Xul and the Cerberi. To take the Aesir, or destroy them.”
Fi’s breath catches in her throat. The leaves of The Tree sway, flutter and vibrate on their own, creating sounds with their movement. Each is subtle and barely heard, but combined they form a mighty voice that both calms and commands. On smaller branches, not much higher than Fi’s head, leaves articulate like hands as Yggdrasil speaks.
