War of Gods, page 63
part #3 of Paternus Series
And chaos it is. Gunfire and clashing swords, tanks blasting as they clatter over mounds of dead bodies. Visibility is poor, but the plain is a cesspool of blood, littered and piled with coprses. Bursts of flame, blasts of cold air, fell chanting, driving rain and bodies hurled through the air. Chiron and the Deva centaurs stampede by in the blur. A helicopter crashes down. Léon’s roar from somewhere in the gloom, Mac Gallus’s rooster crow, and then Léon’s laugh, so vicious and maniacal it chills the bone, fueled by his Firstborn warrior’s lust for battle and blood.
At least they’re alive...
Sleipnir speeds, shockingly agile and fast, dodging blows, jumping heaps of the dead, delivering blows of his own with wings and hooves and teeth, but never slowing. How he knows where he’s going, Fi has no idea. The best she can do is hunker low, hang on, and trust him.
The roar of Typhon vibrates the air, and through crimson mist, looming high over all, she sees the beast squeezing Zeke in a crushing embrace.
Zeke’s legs tremble beneath the titan’s weight and he collapses to his knees. Typhon presses down on Zeke’s back while wrenching Zeke’s arm. There’s a sickening crack. Typhon stretches taller, dragging Zeke to his feet, and wrenches again, while also shoving against Zeke’s body for leverage, then jerks and pulls, tearing Zeke’s arm from the socket.
Zeke doesn’t make a sound; just staggers back, pieces crumbling off him. He teeters, tips back on his heels, and drops, shrinking as he goes, into the clouds that hug the earth.
Fi screams.
Sleipnir bounds over a bunker of corpses, tucking his front legs. As they crest above the pile and begin their descent, Sleipnir abruptly halts and neighs in agony. Fi is thrown forward to fly over his head and spill to the far edge of a blood-soaked crater littered with corpses. She shakes the disgusting fluid from her eyes.
Below the far lip of the crater, a giant warrior in black armor holds Sleipnir aloft, skewered through the chest with a black spear. He watches Sleipnir struggle, then go limp. With a roar, he slams Sleipnir to the ground, stomps on his flank, and yanks his spear free. The head of the weapon, a full third of it, looks like the black spine of a sea creature, serrated along one edge, tapering to a needle-sharp point.
One foot still up on the body of Odin’s legendary steed, he turns to Fi. His eyes are cataract-glazed, but gleaming red behind. “I am Lugh Lámfada.” He grins while pointing the wicked spear at her. “And you are dead.”
Fi has felt rage. Plenty of it. But none like she does right now. Pratha is badly hurt; Zeke, felled by Typhon. Both could be dying, maybe dead. The helplessness she’s felt at the mercy of Maskim Xul. Watching her friends – her family – die. And now Sleipnir’s been slaughtered, and it’s all her fault.
The self-loathing may never fade, but right now, she swears she won’t be helpless. Not ever again. The words Pruor spoke to her on Asgard as they charged down to fight the ogres sound in her mind. “Show no mercy. There is no such thing as a fair fight. Kill as swiftly as possible. Survive to kill again…”
The red light of wrath ignites in her eyes.
Lugh is cunning and swift. He does not roar. There is no tell that he’s about to lunge and strike – but Fi feels it coming and knows exactly where the spear’s point will land: through her armor, straight into her heart. In a split-second her body senses this, and moves.
At the same time she shifts position, a blur of golden armor, the spear slices Fi’s cuirass at her side, sawing at her ribs – and her sword drives deep into the stomach of Lugh Lámfada.
Lugh, however, does not die easily. He stares at Fi, perplexed, then grunts and lunges at her neck with a giant clawed hand. Fi tugs on her sword, using it as a lever, and shoves herself to slide on the slick mud out between his legs and behind him. She abandons her sword as he spins and leaps on him, wrapping her legs around him and drawing one of her daggers. Before he can fully grab hold of her, she’s stabbing him in the face. He screams, slips and falls backward. She keeps stabbing, piercing eye, bone and brain to the hilt, until he stops twitching and flashes in green flame like the head of a struck match. His green smoke mingles with the surrounding fog and disappears.
Fi shoves up from his empty armor, breath hissing through her bared teeth. The black blood of the fallen champion of the Tuatha Dé Danann that covers her face and breastplate wafts away as green mist.
“I knew he wouldn’t last long.”
Fi spins, flinging her dagger.
At the edge of the crater, Loki catches the knife before it strikes his throat. “Do you know who I am, little Valkyrie?”
“I don’t give a shit.” She spits muck and blood, taking in the appearance of Loki, Hel and Fenrir. Even the fearsome hairless hound bigger than a horse doesn’t surprise her. “Just another old asshole as far as I’m concerned.”
What does surprise her, however, is having Loki casually toss her dagger back. She catches and sheathes it in one swift motion, snatches up her sword and shield and backs slowly up the other side of the crater. Then she sees the army of the dead. Crowding all around the hollow, blocking any chance of escape. There are Asura Firstborn with them, some living, some brought back by Khagan, but the rest are walking corpses spread as far as the eye can see. All of them glare at her with feral intent.
Together, Loki and Hel chant softly, holding quaking hands out before them. The bodies in the crater quiver and twitch. The mound Sleipnir leapt over wriggles with life. Reanimated dead slither and roll to splash in the muck, then lever themselves up to their feet.
Loki holds a hand toward Sleipnir. “Rise, my son. Walk beside me as you once did, before forsaking your father, and your father’s father.”
Sleipnir shakes himself and rises, dripping with mud and gore. His eyes are lifeless.
Fi sobs in horror. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” There’s no sign of recognition in Sleipnir’s eyes, no emotion, no sign his mind is there at all.
Loki and Hel discontinue their chant, and Loki smiles.
An enormous shape looms tall in the fog behind them, accompanied by the sound of a heavy body sliding on the ground, its head held high, obscured by the mist.
The Deceiver of Asgard says, “I am Loki, son of Surtr. This is my daughter, Hel, and my son Fenrir. Sleipnir you already know.” He listens to the monstrous beast come up behind him. “And now you meet Jörmungand, the World Serpent, my greatest son. Together with our nameless dead, we will be the Deva’s final downfall.”
“I don’t know who Jörmungand is,” says Fi, “but that ain’t him.” Loki pauses, then he, Hel, and Fenrir turn.
Naga towers over them out of the fog. He throws open his hood and scrapes his scimitars together, causing them to ring with the promise of death. His children come crashing through the dead, cutting them down with their weapons, crushing them with their weight and jaws.
In the old Proto-Norse tongue, Loki says, “Shit.”
Fenrir yelps.
Loki yells to his forces. “Attack!” They do. And so does Naga.
Fi doesn’t wait to see what happens next. She bolts up the far side of the pit, slides through a gap in the press cleared by Naga’s brood, and keeps running into the darkness and fog.
“Zeke…” Cain swings his club, bashing several rat-men – Kobolds, some name them – then calls to his twin brother. “Abel!”
In the melee, Abel has separated the two pieces of his spear and fights with one half in each hand as mace and sword. He leaps to his brother, back to back.
Cain shouts over the racket of battle, “Zeke has fallen.”
Kabir and Léon both hear. Kabir draws his sword from a flaming manticore and leaps back from the beast, leaving it to thrash, stabbing itself with its scorpion tail and taking out a number of nearby Asura as well. “Go to him!”
“We’ve got this,” says Léon. “Right, men?” The human soldiers with them are exhausted, sweaty, filthy with mud and blood. Most are out of ammunition and have drawn the swords and knives given to them by Pratha and Myrddin. And still, they raise their weapons and shout in the affirmative.
Kabir says, “We’ll continue to make our way to Pratha.”
After brief deliberation, The Twins charge off in the direction where Cain saw Zeke fall.
Fi runs as fast as she can over the slippery terrain, around pits, over bodies, cutting down Asura that stand in her way. But the dead are gaining. She never would have thought corpses could run so fast. Spears glance off her armor. Arrows zip past her head. And all the while she kills. Nameless, faceless enemies fall before her, limbs and heads hacked off, or choking on their own blood.
Through the fog ahead, an army of hulking warriors charges straight at her. She won’t go down without a fight. With nowhere else to run, she sprints straight for them. Then the first of them come close enough for her to see who they are. Her ogres, the chieftains leading the way, their tattered pendant of the Flaming Sun flapping behind them. They salute as they pass to either side, but do not slow. Their army flows around her, grunting ogre war cries. They shout, “Die for Flaming Sun!” then come the crashes, squeals and roars of their force meeting the dead.
The plateau is overrun. Circling each other, the Deva desperately defend their shrinking position. Akhu spins like a dervish, wielding her favored weapons of old. Larger than traditional fighting fans, hers are made of Astra foil with blades on the tips of their slats. They function as both shield and blade. Such is her skill, the wounds she inflicts drive the enemy back, but none would kill. She leaves that to the others.
Pruor swings her hammer back and forth, sending Asura flying, flopping and broken, and smashes them into the ground. Edgar and Mol fight as a team, utilizing all their prodigious talent and years of experience battling together. The colonel is with them, having drawn her sword, which proves to be far more than ceremonial. Unknown to her until Freyja identified it, it is called Heaven's Will, once wielded by the legendary Vietnamese king Le Loi. Its boon is to provide the one who wields it with greater strength and endurance. The colonel may only be human, but she does not falter, and her proficiency with the weapon is superb. Gog, Leshy and Quon fend off larger Asura just outside their perimeter.
Two of the colonel’s signal corps members carry radio backpacks, salvaged in their mad escape from the torn and collapsing tent, and several dozen Templars and other human soldiers are with them as they are driven down the slope to the plain. Thoth is there as well, clutching his satchel of ledgers under one arm, piercing and slitting with his lightning-swift rapier the throats of any enemy who comes near.
Mol barks in alarm.
Edgar shouts. “Nooo!”
Akhu whirls to see Typhon brandishing Zeke’s severed stone arm and Zeke dropping out of sight in the fog. She casts her eyes about as if lost, then takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and once more sends a message into the aether and hopes her sifu hears.
Khagan looks on from his terrace, smug satisfaction written on his hideous face. He closes his eyes and lifts his face to the sky. “Come, my pets,” he coos. “Your time has come.”
Zeke lies on the muddy, bloody ground, frail and exhausted, naked and pale, blinking up at the sky. All sound is muffled, the sights before him fuzzy and blurred. There’s blood on his lips and teeth, and a cut over one eye. His skin is bruised and covered in scratches. He feels no pain. Only cold. Somewhere, deep within his mind, Bad Zeke wails.
Zeke grimaces at the memory of the sickening sound and agony when Typhon tore his arm from his body. Weakly, he reaches his other arm over his chest to explore the wound with his fingers. Though it doesn’t hurt, he winces at the feel of exposed bone and gristle in the empty shoulder socket. Typhon’s roar and hideous menacing form draws his eye.
All Zeke can think is how vulnerable he is, lying there, just flesh and bone, so easy to crush and burn.
The Twins run, screaming, in their attempt to reach him. Woe be it to any Asura who stand in their path. Yet they are still too far away.
Typhon leans over Zeke, relishing his victory. Zeke blinks and coughs, mind racing. The elements speak to him, but softly, as if they are weak too, and themselves still afraid of Typhon, the father of all monsters. Zeke can’t even sit up. And what good would that do? Bad Zeke sobs and rages in the depths, rambling to himself. Still Zeke holds out hope. Not for himself, but for Fi. Please let Fi be all right. Please.
Another voice speaks in his ear, one he doesn’t recognize. A man’s voice, deep and strong, saying a single word in a language Zeke has never heard, but somehow he knows what it means. “Call.”
Then he hears the shamaness from Angola. “May your ancestors protect you.” He recalls how she saved herself and her family from the Wendigo’s nightmarish hordes, and the gift she gave him.
His hand creeps across his chest, toward the necklace that miraculously stays with him, absorbed and protected, no matter what Elemental change he makes. He clutches the figurines in his blood-smeared fingers.
Typhon roars and lunges with dragon-headed tentacles.
Zeke closes his eyes and whispers through dry, cracked lips. “Help me.”
The necklace flashes white, as if space itself has been split to reveal a dimension beyond. And maybe it has. A whirlwind of white encircles Zeke, its top closing high over him.
Typhon’s tentacles reach it and he screams, recoiling at its touch, and staggers back.
In the great mausoleum known as Valhalla, Anubis chants with all his might, arms raised and pleading – but nothing is happening. His arms drop and he slumps against the altar.
Ganesh places a hand on Anubis’s shoulder. “My sincerest apologies, Brother, but we must go.”
“Not yet,” murmurs Anubis.
“Is there anything I can do?” Ganesh says.
“I’m afraid not, Brother. Leave me, if you must.”
“I will return if I can, perhaps send Munin.” Without looking at him, Anubis nods. A swirl of red and green, and Ganesh is gone.
Anubis gazes over the rows upon rows of crypts. He’s gaunt and his skin is ashen. He hoped it would not come to this, but there is one more thing he can try. He retrieves an ostrich feather from the case that held the scale. Speaking solemn words, he sets it on the left tray. He then lifts a shining dagger, taking the handle in both hands, and places the point near his heart. He closes his eyes, speaks more words so softly they can barely be heard, and stabs deep.
The closer Cain and Abel get to Zeke, the less of the enemy there is to impede them, all having scattered at the approach of Typhon. They skid to a stop, mouths agape.
Dozens of ephemeral figures from throughout time float around Zeke, like ghostly bees in slow motion, protecting their hive. All face outward, expressionless, like statues, and all are armored and armed, with raiment and weapons of their period of prehistory and beyond. There are women and men, but there can be no doubt who many of them are. The Antediluvian Patriarchs, also known as the Sumerian Line of Kings. Abel’s nephews and nieces. Cain’s direct family line. There are also what some would call cavemen and cavewomen, naked or draped in hides, holding crude clubs and spears of wood and bone. Zeke’s ancestors, all of them.
Typhon rages, menacing as if to try again, but Ganesh’s voice comes from the aether. “Typhoneus.” Typhon straightens and waves his tentacles, attempting to locate its source.
Ganesh floats in his sphere of red and green streamers, Indrajit’s bow in his hands and quiver on his back. He looses, sending arrow after arrow into Typhon’s eyes. The titan roars, writhing and drawing his tentacles close, then throws a dozen out at once, reaching for Ganesh and blasting fire.
Ganesh shifts position, avoiding strikes and flame. He continues to speed arrows at Typhon while backing away. Having lost interest in Zeke, Typhon flops after him, just as the old Elephant planned.
Shrieking her war cry, Fi fights with all she has, fueled by bloodlust and rage. She’s spoken to Akhu, who learned Pratha’s location from Mrs. Mirskaya, and is attempting to make her way through the field. She’s taken more wounds, but as angry and frightened as she is, there’s a clarity and purity to her thoughts and actions, a profound sense of the immediate present. Her body and mind, she and her proximate enemy, are one. And all of her foes are dying, and she is not.
She recoils from the sudden appearance of a woman’s shrieking head, floating with organs and entrails dangling beneath it, wet and squirming. The Aesir made her memorize the names and abilities of over a thousand demons, and the word “Krasue” leaps to mind. Whatever it’s called, she slices its guts from beneath it and bashes its head in with her shield.
Then bronze claws grip her shield and tear it away, leaving her arm bruised and bleeding. The creature buzzes away into the smoky sky and she realizes: The locusts have come.
No time to think on it in the chaos. She stabs a stocky armored Asura Firstborn in the gut and drags her sword up through his shoulder. He flops apart, guts slopping, and Fi’s slammed to the ground by another plummeting locust. It scratches and shrieks in a frenzy, tearing at her armor and opening vicious wounds on her abdomen and arm. Gripping with all its legs, it pulls her face inexorably to its clenching mandibles. Inky spittle splashes in her eyes. Fi scrambles for her dagger, finds it, and drives it through the side of the monster-insect’s helmet. It twitches, its wings buzzing briefly, and dies.
Fi swipes the black fluid from her eyes, kicks the knee of an attacking armored beast, sits up to slash its neck with her dagger as it topples. She snatches her sword, rolls to her feet and spins, sensing an approach from behind – but before she sees who it is, she stays her sword. This is a friend. A fellow Valkyrie.
