Reckoning of Fallen Gods Read online

  The eyes of every villager not involved in a desperate struggle went to that spot, to the strange-looking eirigh’ti, this sun man, so unexpectedly pulling their kin from the waters.

  For many heartbeats, every noise, every movement, everything seemed to stop. Aydrian’s gleaming helmet appeared, then all of him, strangely, crazily, as he lifted up out of the water in a rush, to stand upon it, with not one, but two children cradled in his strong arms.

  He ran to the shore, to the wailing woman, and placed her children, crying and very much alive, on the ground before her, then turned and ran right back out.

  Talmadge pulled a rope from his pack and ran along the shore, throwing its end to nearby villagers to help pull them to shore. He had never seen, had never imagined such a sweeping devastation as this—the wave had run up through the village, then simply pulled everything back out with it.

  He put his emotions away and helped where he could.

  So it went for a long while, everyone trying to help each other, Aydrian running about the water, sometimes diving under, sometimes bringing out half-drowned, or drowned, villagers to carry to the shore.

  As the immediate and obvious tasks diminished, the wails began anew, drawing Talmadge to one small group, kneeling and crying over a horribly wounded man. A splintered log from a shattered house had skewered him, just blow the ribs, and he groaned in pain, still pouring blood, somehow still alive.

  One older woman—Talmadge knew her as one of the village healers—reached for the natural spear, but as soon as she touched it, the man howled in agony. Her hands shaking, for there really was nothing she could do, she placed a torn cloth about the impalement to try to stem the bleeding. Perhaps she was, Talmadge thought, but only outwardly. Inside, the man continued to bleed. Everyone there understood that he was in the last moments of his life.

  Aydrian pushed through the circles of the gathered villagers. Many shied from this strange man, despite his previous and continuing efforts, while others calmly ushered him by. A couple tried to hinder him, but he pushed them aside with incredible ease, finally falling to his knees beside the dying man. He pulled off his helmet and placed it on the ground, then put one hand over the gemstones set in his breastplate and the other on the man’s wound.

  He chanted softly—Talmadge could feel the energy and warmth building around him.

  A wave of healing came forth, silencing the complaints of a few villagers and bringing enough calm to the dying man that he breathed more easily, the rattle and rasp clearly diminished.

  Gasps arose as Aydrian grasped the impaling log, but then let go and shook his head. Looking up at the others, he took up his helm and placed it on the head of the wounded man. Then he placed one hand on that faceplate, on the gemstones crossing above the man’s nose, and grasped the log with the other. He chanted again, another wave of healing, then again, but for something different, something that jolted the poor, wounded man. Before anyone could react, more especially that poor fellow, Aydrian yanked out the log!

  Blood poured behind it, but Aydrian’s hand was there, suddenly, and more healing came forth.

  “Usgar,” Talmadge heard one of the onlookers whisper, and not complimentarily or congenially.

  “No Usgar!” the frontiersman loudly countered, standing tall. “No Usgar! From the east! A friend!”

  Whatever anger the claim that Aydrian was Usgar might have brought could not gain traction in that crowd at that time. This strange newcomer had helped tremendously, selflessly, perhaps even placing himself in danger repeatedly by diving under the water.

  And now this mortally wounded villager was alive and awake, and he even managed a bit of a smile when Aydrian gently removed the helmet.

  He was still in pain, obviously, and still seemed on the edge of death, but he was certainly more comfortable, and appeared much stronger already.

  Aydrian clasped the man’s hand and nodded, then let go and stood up.

  “Inform me if he begins to weaken again, or bleed again,” he said, and all the villagers looked at him curiously, most shaking their heads and shrugging. Aydrian turned to Talmadge, who translated to the villagers in the language of the plateau.

  Then he went off, with Aydrian and most of the others. There was still so much to do, still so many missing. They spent the rest of the day erecting shelters, trying to get a few boats upright and out into the cove, searching the water, and the land nearby—and indeed, they found a group of villagers far back of the cove, much further inland, having been washed there and deposited by the giant wave.

  When darkness fell, Aydrian brought up a magical light from a diamond on his necklace, and walked again onto the water, searching.

  It seemed impossible that he would find anyone else alive, of course, but it didn’t matter. He had to try, and even if he only found bodies, having that evidence and closure would be better for the families.

  Talmadge didn’t miss the decency in that effort.

  Neither did the villagers of Car Seileach.

  9

  GLORIOUS GOLD

  The grand temple had taken on a different feeling in the days since Scathmizzane’s ascendance. It was lighter somehow, brighter, as if the mere presence of the true God-King of the xoconai had brought with him an aura of lightness, of heart and soul and, it seemed, actual daylight. He was called the Glorious Gold among other things, after all, and all the augurs and others who came to the great pyramid temple now understood that title more fully. As his dragon had vomited the sun, the God-King had returned to them a different sort of light, no less warming and blessed than the orb above.

  The God-King had taken up his place on the throne, the same seat occupied by the xoconai children whom the augurs had revered before him. Much had changed, though, and immediately. No longer was the throne room merely ceremonial, a place to keep the God-King while the augurs went about the business of overseeing the Tonoloya nation of the xoconai. No more did those augurs hustle to and fro about the temple, passing through the throne room as if it was any other chamber, paying only a cursory glance and offering only a customary, but hardly deferential, bow or salute.

  No more. Not the augurs nor any other xoconai would dare ignore the tall and beautiful being seated atop the golden throne on the high dais in the great room of the great temple. They could not! Simply looking upon this being of unspeakable beauty compelled them to lower their gaze, to genuflect, and to take great joy that they were alive in this time of Scathmizzane’s true return.

  Scathmizzane took it all in without vanity. He didn’t need it. The deference simply was, as it simply should be. Scathmizzane was beyond them, as much as they were beyond the green-speckled, golden-headed cuetzpali they rode as mounts, and so he was their God-King, as it should be. Only days before, this throne had been warmed by the ass of a child, a young and innocent xoconai, revered for his bloodline and not for any accomplishments, certainly, or intelligence, certainly. That, of course, had been a lie—the xoconai child had been no more than a placeholder in a long line of placeholders, a promise of the return of the true god being, and of himself, of themselves—all of the child’s ancestors—they had been nothing of consequence. Mere figureheads keeping warm the golden throne and reminding the xoconai of their duties and deference to Scathmizzane.

  “Word has fingered through the passes and to the sea, God-King,” one of the younger of his attendant augurs told him one dusty morning, the desert-like hot winds howling down from the eastern slopes of Tyuskixmal.

  “Word that is doubted?”

  “No, God-King, there is no doubt!” the augur said with great enthusiasm. “How could there be? All watched Kithkukulikahn eat the sun and vomit it back as your gift to us.”

  “How could there be?” Scathmizzane echoed in a tone that drained the blood from the young augur’s face, though it was covered by a buzzard skull condoral and so was not witnessed. Still, the way the xoconai shuffled from foot to foot, and from a puddle forming between his feet, those around u
nderstood well that this impertinent fool expected that his life was about to meet a horrible end.

  The room went deathly silent.

  “Is this how you spoke to the child, Skath-mi-Zane?”

  “No, God-King.”

  “Do you bear false testimony to me?”

  “No…” His voice failed him.

  Scathmizzane stood up tall upon the dais and let his gaze flow about the chamber, and every augur in there felt naked before this great and powerful being.

  “I am not without mercy,” he said. “You have all witnessed this one.” He pointed to the young augur, who gave a pathetic mewling sound and shook so badly that it seemed as if he would simply fall over.

  “He questioned me,” Scathmizzane said simply, and a collective inhale ensued. “Perhaps he should offer himself for sacrifice.”

  “Yes, God-King,” the pitiful young augur squeaked.

  “It is not accepted!” Scathmizzane boomed suddenly and violently, and the chamber shook under the sheer power of his voice.

  Many heartbeats passed in absolute silence, before Scathmizzane added, “This time. None other who stand before me will be forgiven this sin.”

  As one, a score of augurs bowed.

  “Finish your message to me,” Scathmizzane told the young augur.

  “God-King, none dare doubt,” the flummoxed augur stammered in that high-pitched, edge-of-shrieking voice so typical among the xoconai. “They come! From every city, the pilgrims come, hoping to gaze upon your beauty.”

  Scathmizzane sat back down and nodded as the young augur finished, “We await your commands of how they may look upon you.”

  “They will process through this very chamber, singly, in a line,” Scathmizzane told them. “They will gaze at the floor before them.”

  He paused.

  “It is said and so it has been told,” all of the augurs chanted in unison.

  “They will each look upon me only once.”

  “It is said and so it has been told.”

  He stood up again and walked to the edge of the dais. “You know what my return foments. Cizinfozza is destroyed. Our way home is clear and cleared.”

  “It is said and so…” some of the augurs began to cry out in joy, but Scathmizzane kept speaking and so they all fell silent, elation turning to sudden horror.

  “Cleared of the god of death, but cleared not of our enemies. What remains upon Tzatzini and beyond is our task.”

  Now he paused and the chorus was raised appropriately.

  “Hear this, my children. Let no pilgrim come to me without his macana and atlatl. None! Not the women, not the children. All must be prepared to kill. All must be glad to die.”

  He paused but held his hand up, demanding no refrain, demanding silence.

  “But I promise you, my children, that all will not die, and that we will go home.”

  The augurs then cheered, just cheered, too overwhelmed to worry about forming words or refrains. They cheered on and on, and Scathmizzane let them.

  When it ended, the young augur stood before the dais still.

  Scathmizzane sat back down on his throne. “You have more to tell me?”

  “I offer myself in sacrifice, for the glory of Scathmizzane!” he cried.

  “Remove your houtic-condoral,” the God-King ordered, using the formal name for the augur mask, which translated to “cleaner of the dead” in the colloquial xoconai language.

  With trembling hands, the young augur complied, revealing that his cheeks were stained with tears of joy, for he was happy, and he looked upon his God-King with tears still pouring down his face.

  “Not now, child,” Scathmizzane told him. “You are the example of my mercy. The living example. You will not err again, will you?”

  “I will die before I…”

  “Good, then be gone and remember ever that my mercy is with limits.”

  The poor, overwhelmed young augur started to leave, then stopped and bowed repeatedly and foolishly as he tried to put his condoral back on. Finally, he collected himself to begin to depart, but he had gone only two steps when Scathmizzane yelled for him to halt.

  “Turn,” the God-King ordered, and the young augur slowly swung about to face the beautiful and terrible god once more.

  “You sin again?”

  The young augur sucked in his breath, obviously at a loss.

  “Has it been that long?” Scathmizzane told him, told them all. “Has the disrespect for the line of God-Kings led to such sloth?”

  The augurs had no answers.

  “When you depart my presence, henceforth, you will do so backing and bowing, every step.”

  “It is said and so it has been told!” they all cried.

  The young augur bowed and backed, then bowed again, but Scathmizzane pointed to the floor before the dais where he had originally been standing—or more particularly, pointed to the puddle of piss on the floor.

  The young augur swallowed hard.

  “Clean it,” the God-King ordered.

  “It is said and so it has been told,” the young augur recited, and glanced around for a broom or a bucket, or a cloth, or anything he might use.

  “Now,” Scathmizzane warned.

  The augur hiked up his black robes and fell to his knees, as if to use the robe to sop up the puddle.

  “Do not dare soil the robes of my priesthood,” Scathmizzane warned.

  Now so obviously and thoroughly flummoxed, the poor young augur glanced sidelong at some of his more venerated and experienced fellows, but alas, none could offer anything to him.

  “Now,” Scathmizzane said calmly, too calmly.

  The augur fell flat to the floor and cleaned the puddle, with his mouth.

  Scathmizzane sat back on his golden throne, quite satisfied, and didn’t give the young xoconai, his living example of his merciful manner, another moment of thought.

  * * *

  The old augur, now named Pixquicauh, glanced at the great temple often, but rarely visited. He didn’t have to, even though he had been named as the High Priest of Scathmizzane, for he understood his god’s needs without having to be told. Perhaps it was telepathic, or perhaps—and the old augur wanted to believe this—it was simply instinctual to him due to the purity of his soul. His family had followed the old ways, the true ways, without interruption since the old times. He understood Scathmizzane’s desires, he thought and hoped, because the will of the xoconai God-King was the lesson of his life. The only lesson, the only way.

  Scathmizzane believed that, too, he knew, because the God-King had anointed him as Pixquicauh. The name itself didn’t much matter to him, or at least, he knew it shouldn’t matter to him. His purpose, his joy, his very reason for being, was to serve Scathmizzane, however the God-King demanded. If asked by the Glorious Gold to offer himself for sacrifice, the old augur would happily and without hesitation throw himself upon the altar and open his robes, inviting the dagger.

  But the title did matter to him, and it was a failing that he knew he had to simply accept in himself. His line, his father, his grandfather, and many before that, had held true to Scathmizzane, and had known the substitute xoconai God-Kings called Skath-mi-Zahn for what they were. They had known that the dragon would return to eat the sun and announce the glorious return of the true god.

  His family had suffered for their faith—for their stubbornness, so they had been told. They had suffered the barbs of the other augurs, telling them to move into the great present and let go of the superstitious past. They had suffered the bare coffers, for so few xoconai would adhere to their teaching, the old ways, which were not as comfortable and gratifying as the new.

  Xoconai civilization had become corrupted around him, and he, and his ancestors, had been forced to suffer that indignity and sinfulness.

  So this title, this name of Pixquicauh, which shouldn’t have mattered to him, did matter, because it was a validation of his family’s generations of suffering, of frugality, of denying great pleasur
es and great accolades, of abstaining from love, other than love of Scathmizzane.

  Now it was all worth it, he thought, then immediately chastised himself for that thought.

  “It was ever worth it,” he whispered. “There is no other way.”

  Later, he must scourge himself bloody for the momentary transgression, he knew.

  He shook the thought away, remembering his most important task this day. Into a common room he went, where more than a dozen xoconai adults sat drinking the wine that had been brought in trade from the northwestern valleys, chatting, and playing various games.

  The atmosphere grew tense immediately when the black-robed augur wearing a gruesome skull, an actual xoconai skull, as a condoral entered, and grew more anxious still when the old augur lifted his arms out wide and high, revealing the many black feathers that had been added to his garb, signifying his penultimate rank.

  The xoconai revelers fell all over themselves in trying to get down quickly to their knees, even the tavernkeeper, who disappeared behind the bar as he sank low.

  The old augur pulled a wrapped object from a wide pocket on the side of his black robe. With great reverence, he unwrapped it, revealing a circular frame with a golden plate inside it, suspended top and bottom by leather cords.

  A third cord, a handle with a loop to fit over the bearer’s finger, marked the top of the obdiji, the aura spotter. The old augur hooked his crooked finger through the loop and lifted the obdiji aloft, holding it out from his body as he moved to the first kneeling woman, holding the item beside her head. With a puff of breath, he sent the gold plate spinning within the frame.

  Around and around it went, and the augur stared into the spinning, polished surface, seeing more than the reflection of the woman’s profile, seeing the colors she carried, signifying the level of purity of her devotion to Scathmizzane.

  He did this for each of the patrons, measuring them, then selected three from among them.

  Three worthy to carry the word of the God-King.