God Of Death c-2 Page 15

  The Vikings were magnificent. Foremost in the field of slaughter were Olaf and Vlad. They blocked the thrusts of spears and stone-edged clubs with their shields. They parried and thrust and chopped and sliced through everything in their path.

  And then Holdbod the Berserker leaped in front, jumping over a pile of dead Olmecs.

  The manic rage was upon him. Nothing could stop him now in his desire for blood. He raced out into the heavy mass of retreating Olmecs crying for Thor to give him strength to kill more and more. His great sword rained a destruction upon the Olmecs such as they had never imagined could exist. Endlessly he killed. An Olmec captain leaped in front of this monster to stop him. Holdbod wrapped his great arms around the man as he would a child and through tear-filled eyes thanked Odin for this gift, alternately crying and laughing, he snuggled the smaller form of the Olmec against his chest and squeezed, unmindful of the Olmecs trying to tear him loose from their captain. The Olmec chieftain gave a long ululating strangling cry as his ribs collapsed and crushed in on themselves, his head back in an arc of pain. Holdbod squeezed the life out of him, not feeling the cuts from the obsidian blades or the half-dozen arrows protruding from his back. He dropped the Olmec, regained his sword, and the great blade began to swing again… up and down… up and down… endlessly.

  Casca joined him, his short sword doing equal, if not quite as bloody, work. Casca was sparing in his strokes, making each one count, while Holdbod fought mindlessly. He even turned on Casca, knocking his leader to the ground and standing over him, his great sword raised above his head ready to slice this fallen foe to separate pieces. A hand grasped his wrist. "Brother, hold." Vlad the Dark's quiet voice broke the blood film around Holdbod's mind. Looking down at Casca and recognizing him, Holdbod began to sob uncontrollably.

  Casca got to his feet and hugged Holdbod's hairy shoulder. "No fear, brother. It's not my time. Now, go and rest. Leave some of them for the rest of us."

  Still sobbing, Holdbod walked unseeing to the rear. The rage had come and gone. Only his wounds were unfelt. The arrows in his back waved and bobbed up and down like some obscene gesturing.

  Once to the rear, he fell unconscious.

  Vlad took his place in the forefront, his great axe doing at least double duty. If anything the quiet intensity of this deadly stranger struck even greater fear into the hearts of the already panic-stricken Olmecs. All semblance of order disappeared in their ranks. Blind panic ruled now. Teypetel had lashed his bearers until they had collapsed, spilling their load into the street of death. Rising, the greasy, bulbous monster tried to stop the blind retreat of his legions, cutting down man after man with his copper blade, but to no avail. They streamed past him in mindless terror.

  "Dog fucker, I am here."

  Turning, Teypetel, god and king of the Olmecs, faced Casca the stranger and god from the sea. A chill ran through his bowels. Was this a god? Before he could answer his own question, Casca was upon him, his blade slicing away the haft of Teypetel's axe. Teypetel, god of the Olmecs, wet himself as he turned to flee. Casca threw his Roman short sword at the back of the terrified king, knocking him to the earth already sticky and claylike with the blood of thousands of his followers.

  Casca grasped the bald head of the downed king and raised him to his knees. Placing his own knee in the Olmec's back along the spine, he pulled the grotesque head back. "Well, you piece of shit, it's time for you to meet your ancestors." Casca placed his scarred, sinewy hands together, interlocking the fingers. The butt of a hand on each side of the obese king's temples, he began to squeeze. As he pushed in, taking ever deeper breaths, the muscles in his own back snapped and crackled with the strain.

  But the tremendous pressure was being transmitted to the king's brain case. Teypetel squirmed and sobbed, promising anything if only the Quetza would stop squeezing.

  His answer came, quicker than he had expected but not in the way he wanted it. With one great expulsion of air the skull of the king of the Olmecs cracked along the fracture lines like the shell of a turtle and began to cave in upon itself, sharp pieces of the brain case knifing into the living brain itself. The the whole skull gave way and Casca's hands were holding only a reddish gray, bleeding mass of bone and ruptured brain tissue.

  Several Olmec captains had been looking back, already terrified by the pursuing Teotec and their fearsome allies. When they witnessed Casca's gruesome dispatch of their former king, that was the final straw. No longer trying to maintain even the semblance of cohesion, they fled blindly back the way they had come, every man for himself, leaving thousands of their brothers dead or in the process of being put into that state by the avenging Teotec. Even the old men and old women had descended from the rooftops to aid in this effort. The old women especially seemed to delight in bashing the brains out of wounded Olmecs. Compassion was a commodity reserved for their own.

  Wiping his hands on his cuirass, Casca grimaced distaste of the clinging pieces of bone and brain tissue. The Vikings had stopped following the retreating enemy and were now involved in looting the bodies of the fallen. Thinking nothing of such activity since it was standard battle practice Casca decided he had better find Metah and see how she had made out. He had lost all thought of her when word of the advancing Olmecs had reached him. Stepping over the bodies of both Olmec and Teotec soldiers he started to make his way back down the thoroughfare. Periodically he would bend over the body of a fallen Viking, imprint the man's name and face in his memory, close his eyes for a moment, then move on. They had died the way they would have wished. It was fortunate that no more had fallen than had. Entering the great square, Casca automatically looked up the pyramid where only a few months before he had felt the golden flint knife cut into him. Involuntarily he shivered, and turned to go to his own palace.

  "Quetzal"

  The booming voice of Tezmec froze Casca in his tracks. Taking off his plumed helmet, he shaded his eyes and looked to the source of the calling.

  On the temple at the top of the pyramid Tezmec stood in full priestly dress, his robes whipping around him from the breeze, his body painted coal black, bright carmelian red circles drawn around his eyes.

  "Quetza!" The old man's voice boomed stronger than Casca had ever heard. "You have brought this upon us." The old man waved to the masses of dead below. "You have brought this tragedy to my people. You are a false god. I told you we must have messengers to go to the heavens and deliver our prayers, but you would not have it so. Instead my people lie dead in our streets. This is your doing. You are no god. You cannot even protect your own woman. Totzin has taken her." Tezmec indicated the road leading to the high mountains. "False god, you will stop me from doing my duty no longer.

  The gods will have a messenger, and perhaps then our curse will be lifted."

  Tezmec held above his head the same shining blade that he had used on Casca.

  The Roman noticed for the first time that the altar fires were lit and smoke was rising from the flames.

  "I shall do my duty," the old man repeated.

  In less than a heartbeat's time the ancient priest slashed his own chest open, exposing the cavity. Casca felt a pain in his own chest. He knew exactly what the old priest was feeling. The old man raised his face to the heavens and cried, his voice breaking in agony for his people: "O gods of my fathers, Quetza, Tlaloc, hear my prayers and forgive your children for they know not what they do. Accept me in payment for their sins." The old man threw his body onto the flames of the altar. His open chest, right over the center of the fire, sizzled and crackled. Tezmec screamed not once, for he was dead before the fire touched him. There was only silence as the flames consumed the insides of his body and turned his old heart into a shriveled cinder.

  Silence lay over the city. All had stopped. Casca was stunned. What had the old man said about forgiveness and sins? Where had he heard that before?

  Metah! Did he say that little runt Totzin had Metah? Not stopping, Casca began running in the direction Tezmec had pointed, out
past the city's edge, out through the spiny maguey fields. He ran one step after another, eyes straining to see ahead.

  That poisonous little shit had Metah…

  THIRTEEN

  Metah's hands were bound behind her with a strip of rawhide. A leash of the same was around her throat, cutting off her breath every time she stumbled or faltered. Totzin jerked and cursed as he dragged her along, relentlessly trying to reach the hidden sanctuary in the distant mountains, the sanctuary only he knew of. There he would be safe and gather to himself the loyal survivors of his cult. From there he would build his own city and grow in strength until he could return and take vengeance. Everything had gone wrong. How could the Olmecs have lost?

  Metah stumbled and lay still. Viciously jerking her leash, he commanded her to rise and walk. The cord twisted itself and cut a thin red line in her brown flesh.

  Struggling to her knees, she looked the Jaguar priest straight in the face. "No. I will go no further, eater of filth, traitor."

  Totzin struck her with the back of his hand. "Silence, you she-slut. You will obey."

  Metah's tongue touched the cut in her mouth, tasting salty blood.

  "No further. I will go no further. Casca will come for me."

  Instinctively Totzin looked back down from the ridge they were on. His body was old, but he had the eyes and vision of youth. A movement in the corner of his eyes caused him to focus on something in the distance. At first he thought it might have been a deer, but light sparkling off the body told him it was Casca. The strange armor was what was shining. The bitch is right. The devil comes. How did he know which way we had gone?

  Smiling a snaggle-toothed grin, he said, "Well, enough. I will give him what he wants and slow him up enough that I may escape."

  Pulling Metah to him by the sheer force of his jerking on the leather leash, he dragged her across sharp stones and cactus spines. Taking her by the back of her long black hair, he forced her head up and faced her toward where Casca was coming.

  "You're right, bitch. He comes, and I shall see that he is not disappointed, for surely he wants you more than I do. There will be plenty for me to satisfy myself with when I am away. Therefore I leave you to him."

  Metah gasped as a burning pain set her abdomen on fire. Consciousness mercifully left her…

  Totzin wiped the blade of his obsidian dagger across his tongue, tasting the sweet salty richness of her blood. He had an extraordinary knowledge of anatomy due to the thousands he had sent to his Jaguar god. He had stabbed her low, just above the pubic hair. It would take long for her to die, perhaps even days. The foreign devil, her lover, would surely stop to care for her, and he would make good his escape to his sanctuary. Leaving the injured Metah behind, he gave one more look to where Casca was easily visible now, leaping over bushes and rocks in his path, closer than Totzin would have thought. The priest ran, losing himself in the scrub trees and brush, trying to get away from the devil from the sea. He ran as fast as his thin legs could take him away from that butchering madman.

  Casca almost stepped on the huddled mass that was Metah. His heart stopped for a moment, and with a cry of anguish he dropped beside her body and gently turned her over. A small coughing like that of a hurt child brought a rush of relief to him. She lives… Cutting her bonds, he cradled her in his arms and began to walk down the hills. No thought of Totzin or vengeance was in his mind, only Metah and her pain. Quickly, swiftly, careful not to jar her as he walked, he brought her home. The sun had gone behind the rim of mountains surrounding the valley when he brought her to his palace. None spoke. One look at his face was enough to stop all questioning.

  That night while he sat watching her, cooling her face with a damp rag, he suffered again the pains of losing someone he loved. His silent care and thoughts were interrupted by a presence. A young shaman of the Coyote clan stood in the doorway. Silently he walked across the tiled floor to the bed. Gently he took the rag from Casca's hand, and bending over he looked at the wound. He inspected the point of entrance. Gently his fingers touched and probed around the area of the wound. Only once did Metah moan when he touched her. His wrist was quickly locked in a steel vise as Casca grabbed and held him. The young priest gently and determinedly took Casca's hand from his wrist.

  "Tectli Quetza, she dies."

  The young priest's voice was soft but certain.

  "The cut is deep inside. For years I have watched and studied. It has come to me that when one has lost too much of his blood, he dies. I have seen many like her. When the blood leaves the body or fills the abdomen, they weaken; the heart beats faster, but weaker. They go into a deep sleep as she has now and do not wake. She will die before the dawn."

  Casca groaned at the young man's words.

  "Is there no hope? No way to save her?"

  The young priest nodded. "One perhaps, Tectli. But before I explain it to you, let me say that I do not agree with the priest Tezmec. The Olmecs would have come sooner or later. Under torture the Jaguar priest Totzin's men have confessed their treachery."

  Casca nodded. "Well, that's something at least. Perhaps then all the blame is not mine. But still this is. She is my woman, and what has happened to her is my responsibility. That I do know. If you can do anything to save her, young priest, then do it now, and do it before she leaves me."

  "As you command, Tectli. My name is Sactle. All my life I have wondered what is death and what is the cause of death. There are many things that cause it, but one, as I told you, is when too much of the body's blood is lost. I believe that the blood is the life force of all. I have experimented with many animals including monkeys, whose bodies are amazingly like man's in their construction. I once let the blood out of one and put back in the blood of another when the beast was close to death as is your lady Metah now. The blood of the second monkey kept the first from dying. The secret of life, Tectli, I believe is in the blood."

  Casca thought for a moment.

  In the blood… Perhaps he is right. It was the blood of the Jew that caused my condition, my being condemned to live and never age. Perhaps if I gave Metah some of my blood the life force that sustains me would save her also… Hope rose in him. She might even become as me! At last I would have someone to walk through the ages with me until the Jew sets me free! Not to be alone anymore… to be able to stay with one person and not to have to look for signs of fear in their faces when their hair turns to gray and wrinkles show the passage of time and I remain the same… Yes, it must be the blood.

  Aloud he said: "Do it, priest. Do it now before she is too weak to help. And use my blood to fill her with life."

  The Coyote priest bowed. "As you wish, Tectli. But know that I can promise nothing. Never have I tried this on humans. It may not succeed. But she will die if nothing is done. That I swear to."

  "Then be about it, man." Casca's voice rose. "Make haste while we still have time. You said she would die before dawn. That leaves us less than an hour if we do nothing."

  Sactle took from his pouch a long thin flexible strip of material.

  "What the Hades is that?" Casca demanded in irritation.

  Sactle answered, "It is made from the sap of a tree that grows to the south. We also make a ball from it that we play with in the courtyards. I take the sap and smear it over a small reed. It is hardened in the fire, in the heat from the smoke. When it is ready, it is pulled back and rolled off the reed leaving a flexible tube. It is through this that your blood will pass from you to your lady."

  He reached again into his pouch and took out two golden needles, showing them to Casca.

  "These, too, are hollow. They will fit into the ends of the sap tubing. I will insert one of the needles into your arm, into one of the channels through which your life's blood flows, and the other into that of the Lady Metah. Your body being the stronger, your blood force should push its way into her weakened system. Now, Tectli, lie down beside your lady."

  Casca did as the priest said, putting his thick-muscled body next to th
e slight frame of the woman he loved. She looked even tinier… as though she were fading away. There were hollows under the eyes he remembered as having sparkled with life. Her cheeks had a starved look.

  "Get on with it, priest."

  "Patience, Tectli. It will take but a moment." Taking another strip of the flexible sap tubing, Sactle wrapped it around Casca's arm and tied a knot in it above Casca's elbow. "It will stop the flow of your blood to your arm until the needle is in your blood channel. Then the tube tie will be released, and the blood will flow again." He worked swiftly. Deftly he entered the needle into Casca's vein. Turning to Metah, he searched for a while, probing gently with the needle until he finally had it inserted in her.

  "Now, Tectli, we release the tie."

  Casca nodded. Watching Metah's face, he never noticed the priest letting the tie around his upper arm loose. It wasn't until he felt the tingling that meant the blood flow was returning that he noticed it. The priest held the open end of the tubing away from Metah. It had not been attached to the golden needle in her arm. Drops of Casca's blood began to drip out of the end of the tube. Then a small steady stream.

  "You fool!" Casca cursed the priest. "Why haven't you attached the needle?"

  The priest merely looked quietly at Casca. "Because, Tectli, I have found that I must wait until the blood fills the tube before transferring it. Otherwise a quantity of air will be transmitted in front of the blood. For some reason I do not know this is a fatal thing to have happen. Now!" He attached the open end of the flexible tube to the needle in Metah's arm.