Obsidian & Blood (42 page)

  Another clawed hand batted them aside; I looked into the yellow, malicious eyes of an ahuizotl – I had time to wonder, dimly, absurdly, if it was the same that had maimed Eleuia – and then Tlaloc's creature, hissing, was retreating, while the ahuizotl's slimy skin pressed itself against mine. Forcing me leftwards, I realised: towards the shore, and Teomitl, who stood with water halfway to his knees, his face creased in concentration.

  I half-walked, half-ran towards him. One creature detached itself from the pack that was engaging the priests, and glided lazily towards me. I quickened my pace. The ahuizotl's jaws snapped at its midriff, and the creature engaged it instead of me.

  I had no particular wish to see who would win; and I couldn't bring myself to cheer for the ahuizotl, despite the fact that it appeared to be on our side.

  "Acatl-tzin!" Teomitl called out. He stood in a circle of emptiness. The Jade Skirt's light spilled around him, creating a barrier the Storm Lord's creatures prowled around, but were unwilling to bypass.

  When I approached, they turned their attention to me, hissing with an eerie joy.

  I did the only thing that made sense: I ran, and threw myself at Teomitl's feet, into the water.

  I rose, coughing up algae, to peer into Teomitl's amused gaze. "Some reinforcements," he said.

  I turned around, to survey the battlefield. On the water, Ixtli's men were engaging the priests of Tlaloc, trying to bring their boats close enough to strike at their exposed enemy. Meanwhile, the priests were also trying to get within range, though their spells did not require contact to be cast.

  One priest in particular seemed to be their leader: a tall, lean man with green paint smeared across his face, standing at the back of one of the largest barges. It wasn't Acamapichtli. No matter how hard the High Priest of Tlaloc had worked to indict Neutemoc, it appeared he was quite blameless in the matter of the Storm Lord's child. I wasn't sure whether I ought to have been disappointed. 

  On the island, Ichtaca had a cage with two hummingbirds at his feet. He was busy drawing a circle in the mud, whispering the words of a prayer to the Southern Hummingbird. I recognised a much stronger version of Mihmatini's warding spell, directed not only at Ichtaca, but at every human being in the vicinity. 

  It might possibly dispel the creatures, but that spell would take time to cast, time we were running out of.

  Next to Ichtaca, two offering priests swiped at the creatures – failing to do any damage, but still keeping them at bay. As I watched, one of them slipped in the mud, and one of the creatures' claws opened up a wound on his arm. He fell, a vacant smile stretching across his face. 

  An ahuizotl welled up from the water, and leapt to take the priest's place. Neither Ichtaca nor the other priest did anything more than nod tiredly. Any help was better than none. 

  Palli was down on one knee, but otherwise unharmed, and Ezamahual was busy protecting two of his fallen comrades, his harsh face transfigured by battle frenzy.

  The least that could be said was that the battle was not going in our favour.

  "Where is–" I started; and saw Neutemoc. He had somehow managed to evade the creatures, and was steadily fighting his way towards the top of the rise – no, not fighting, more weaving his way between claw-swipes, each of which could mean his death. 

  "He's insane," I said, though not without a touch of jealousy.

  Teomitl shrugged. "Don't you recognise it? He has nothing to lose any more."

  An image of Huei rose in my mind: of her standing in the reception room, bitter and sad, and I, refusing to understand her until it was too late. I quelled it. It wasn't the time. "Are you wounded?" I panted.

  Teomitl shrugged, although every feature of his face was drawn and wan, like a man drained of blood. "I'll go on."

  I stared at Neutemoc, and at the child Mazatl, still standing before the altar. "We have to help him to reach the altar," I said. "Close enough to strike."
  Teomitl grimaced. "Will the child die?"

  I shrugged. My experience of god-children was, thank the Duality, fairly limited. "He's human. If he wasn't, he couldn't wield so much magic. He'll die."

  Teomitl didn't look convinced; and I wasn't completely, either. But it was a fair chance. "Worth a try," he said. "Distract the creatures, then?"

  I nodded. At least until we found a way to kill them. I hefted an obsidian knife with my left hand, feeling the slight twinge from old wounds, and stared at the creatures, bracing myself to leave the circle of Teomitl's protection.

  Over the water, some of Ixtli's men had managed to get close enough to the priests: they were hacking and slashing, their boats swaying under them. The priests, though, were casting spells: darts of green light that wounded as much as if they had been metal. As I watched, one of Ixtli's men, struck in the chest by three darts at the same time, stood shock-still at the prow of his boat – and keeled into the lake. He did not move. Blood stained the water, lazily spreading over the fluid shapes of the ahuizotls.

  With a sigh, I lifted my knife to strike; and felt the emptiness of Mictlan fill me, a hundred, a thousand times stronger than it had ever been. The wind in my ears was the lament of the dead, and the water lapping at my ankles cold and unforgiving, like a drowned man's kiss – and even Teomitl's voice was the rattle of a dying man.

  I had felt this, once before, when fighting the beast of shadows. But it had never been this strong, never altered the shape of the Fifth World.
  Those were not my knives.

  Within me, Chalchiutlicue was laughing.
A gift, priest
, she said, and Her voice was terrible.

  Gasping, I stepped away from Teomitl, straight into the path of one of the creatures.

  Its clawed hands snaked, lazily, to strike me. One of the ahuizotls leapt up from the water, snarling, but it was too late – the claws sank into my skin – and numbness spread from the wound, that terrible numbness that marked the end of the fight.

  I was dimly aware of sinking to one knee; of someone – Teomitl? Palli? – screaming in a faraway land; of the creature rushing in to gorge on my blood. With sluggish hands, I raised my knife – held it against my chest to defend against the claws – and the creature, too eager to exploit my weakness, impaled itself on the blade. 

  Within me, the numbness of Tlaloc's wounds met the growing emptiness of Mictlan: two huge waves clashing against each other and breaking, sending their aftershocks into the depths of my soul. Visions of Eleuia's empty orbits mingled with the image of Father's body – and Mother's face, contorted in anger, held the fervent gaze of Commander Quiyahuayo. My limbs would not stop shaking. 

  Chalchiutlicue laughed and laughed in the empty rooms of my mind.
A gift, priest. For My husband.

  Far, far beyond me, the Storm Lord's creature screamed: a thin, reedy cry like a strangled new-born. As the visions slowly faded away, I came to myself, in time to see the creature withdraw from my blade as if scalded; and with each passing moment it grew fainter and fainter, still screaming in that pathetic way that tore at my guts. 

  And then the creature was gone. Stillness spread from the place of its death like a shroud thrown over the Fifth World. Everything in its wake paused or slowed down: Ichtaca's harsh chanting, Neutemoc's macuahitl-swipes, the ahuizotls' clenching tail-hands, the priests' dart-throwing, the Duality warriors' strokes. But the worst affected were the other creatures. They came to a standstill, as if sharing in the death of their comrade.

 

Time slowly returned to normal, it seemed, and my heartbeat finally slowed back to a more leisurely rhythm.

  "How in the Duality's name did you do this?" Teomitl asked, beside me. His face was still taut, contorted on the edge of pain. 

  "I didn't," I said, curtly. The creatures were markedly slower, and more reluctant to approach me. "Thank your protector." 

  Teomitl said nothing. I kept my hand near my knife, but not actually touching it; and saw Neutemoc evade the last of the creatures, and run towards the child at the altar.

  For a brief moment, they faced each other: Neutemoc's face, contorted in the battle-frenzy, and Mazatl's, his green eyes expressionless. Then Neutemoc's sword swept towards the child, biting into the exposed flesh of his neck.

  I'd expected some struggle, or some vast display of magic. But Mazatl simply crumpled, like a felled gladiator at the combat-stone: the knees first, then the chest, and the small head with its childhood lock, sinking into the mud by the altar, small and forlorn in death.

  Beside me, Ichtaca's chanting paused, and Tlaloc's creatures turned towards the altar, watching their master's death.
  Over. It was over.
  Then why didn't it feel like it?

  I glanced at the ghost tree: it still stood, rooted in the water of the lake, filled with creatures growing fat on magic. The rain falling over us was still gorged with Tlaloc's magic, and none of the other creatures had gone.

  Laughter, bright and terrible, echoed over the lake. It was the sound of a lightning strike, earthing itself in a peasant's skin; the wild roar of heavy rains; the sound of wind, tearing away cacti and trees from the land.

  "Did you think it would be that easy?" a voice asked.

  It came from the roots of the ghost tree, I realised with a shock: from a small silhouette, radiating power as the sun radiated heat. 

  I looked again at Neutemoc, who was kneeling by the body of the boy he'd just killed, his face frozen in shock.

  I remembered the old woman's words:
I have many, many grandsons.
  It was the wrong child: one of Mazatl's foster brothers, casually sacrificed as a decoy. The wrong child.
  
Did you think it would be that easy?

  In the terrible, heavy silence, magic flowed from the branches of the ghost tree: threads of raw power, plunging into the creatures' bodies, filling their featureless shapes with magic the way one pumped water into the earth. The creatures made a soft, hissing sound; and turned back towards us, filling the air with their mindless glee. 

  Over the water, three priests of Tlaloc had died, but over half of Ixtli's men would never see the Fifth World again. And atop the altar, Neutemoc was surrounded by creatures, mindlessly crowding each other to drink his blood. 

• • • •

One of the creatures leapt at Teomitl, passing through Chalchiutlicue's circle of protection as if through flimsy cotton. Teomitl raised his macuahitl sword. But it was too late. The claws had already bitten into his flesh. He sank to one knee, gasping.

  I ran towards him, but two more creatures blocked my path, their featureless bodies undulating, as if they tasted my scent from the air. My hand tightened over my knife's hilt. The emptiness of Mictlan filled me once more, the whole Fifth World turning into a hymn to death and decay. The smell of decomposition rose from the earth, saturating my nostrils, insinuating itself under the pores of my skin. Ichtaca's chanting faded into nothingness, replaced by the endless lament of the dead.

  Shaking, I raised the blade, and struck. The thread linking the creature to the ghost tree snapped. It made that same cry of a baby dying, tearing at my heart for the children I would never have. 

  But the second creature was already reaching towards me, its claws not going for my arm or my hand, but towards my throat. 

  As if in a dream, I threw myself to the right and the claws raked my arm and side. Numbness filled me, collided with Mictlan's lament, becoming Father's empty gaze; becoming Mother's hands, still clenched in anger long after her death. I rolled over, gasping for breath. One creature had latched to Teomitl, feeding upon him with relish. The one that had struck my shoulder hovered over me, hesitant to approach.

  I didn't give it a chance to reach a decision. I fell upon it with my knife, and sank the blade all the way in, until it plunged into muddy earth, the fragile obsidian snapping in two. The thread broke in two, and the creature screamed and started to fade. 

  Cursing, I withdrew my second knife from my belt, and ran towards Teomitl. Under my feet was not mud, but bones, breaking with every step I took – and the dead, whispering to me of my failures. 

  Honour your parents and your clan…
 

  Bring glory to your name… 

  Tell your children to enjoy the joys of the Fifth World…

  I had no honour; no glory; no children to come after me. But it didn't matter. It had never mattered. The dead could not touch me. 

  It was a lie: every whispered word hurt like a small wound; but still I managed to raise a shaking hand, and sink the knife into the creature latched into Teomitl.

  As it started to fade away, Teomitl toppled into the mud, his eyes glazing over, his face locked into a desperate expression. 

  Cautiously, I slackened my grip on my knife, and knelt by his side, trying to shake him awake. "Come on," I whispered. "Come on." 

  Somehow, Neutemoc had woven his way between the creatures that opposed him, and left the altar and the dead child behind. Moving with a speed and ease I had not known he possessed, he was running towards one of the empty reed boats, his obsidianstudded sword weaving in and out of the creatures' embrace. It reminded me of two dancers I had seen a long time ago, in a deserted girls' calmecac; back when the whole affair had just been a missing priestess – and not this… monstrosity it had turned into. 

  No creatures remained to face me. They were all engaged in battle against my priests. Palli was standing in the water, his back wedged against one of the reed boats, keeping the creatures at bay with grim determination.