Casca clicked his eyes back open. He shook his head. He had been asleep and dreaming… Or had he? What was the matter?
Shit! I know something is wrong. Totzin is walking around like he is the cat that just swallowed the mouse. Something is rotten. Tomorrow I'll send out my own scouts to take a look around the countryside.
Casca slept, the warm body and soft hair of Metah his only coverlet in the warm night. Mumbling in her sleep, she snuggled closer.
The first light of dawn saw Casca up and about, waking his men and sending the runners out to the far passes. Tezmec, too, was up early. On a temple, unseen, he was praying for forgiveness and divine guidance, bowing low before the sun rising from the basin surrounding them. He was singing the ancient songs of his race. The carved figures of the Serpent and Tlaloc seemed to mock him. He received no answer. Weary from his long vigil, he took his old bones back down from the pyramid to his home. The day was almost upon them.
Casca's Vikings were rousing themselves from various stages of sleep and stupefaction. Those who had chosen women were running them off so they could be about their master's work for the day. Platters of venison, half-cooked, charred on the outside, were being gulped down, along with the flat cakes called tortillas.
Casca stood with the young king instructing him in the use of the short sword, explaining that weapons didn't just happen; they were designed to serve the style or battle and other accouterments of the user. Patiently answering Cuz-mecli's questions, he explained that the short sword was designed to stab around and beneath even when the opponent had a longer weapon and greater strength. If he could be forced to close with you, the shorter blade would give good service while the longer blade of the enemy was almost useless.
This discourse was broken up when the bloody figure of a Serpent soldier stumbled into their presence and threw himself down before Casca and the king, a feathered barb protruding from his back. Bloody froth on his lips showed that he was shot in the lung.
His painted face was raised painfully.
"Tectli Casca… They came… the Olmecs. They are through the pass and even now are less than an hour from the city. Their king, Teypetel, the monster, leads them…"
The man shivered as if from a sudden chill, gave one short cough, and was still. He was the first victim of the war between Teotec and the Olmec, First blood was the Olmec's, but, swore Casca, not the last.
Tezmec stepped in front of the king and Casca. He had been coming in the entrance to the king's chambers when the runner appeared.
He pointed a withered finger at Casca. "I knew disaster would befall us," he accused. "You have betrayed us! Because of you, many of my people will perish. It is too late to hide in the hills. We must have sacrifices to appease the gods and prevent this disaster from befalling us!"
Casca faced the old priest.
"No! By all the hounds of hell, no! There will be no more hearts cut out on your bloody altar for your bloody gods!" Pushing roughly past the startled old priest, Casca strode to the balcony and bellowed like the mythical bull of the German forest, "Olaf!"
"Olaf!" he thundered, the name echoing around the great plaza. "Bring me my men!" Men… men… men… The words repeated and faded.
The army of the Teotecs was gathered. Not all could make it in time, but fifteen thousand men stood ready, brilliant in their war dress and painted faces. They stood in silent ranks waiting for the one who would lead them in battle. In the city were Olaf and the Vikings, and the indication that today was different from others was mirrored in Vlad's face, which seemed a little darker. Holdbod fingered the edge of his great sword a little more frequently. They all waited like faithful hounds for their master's appearance.
Then he was before them.
The great serpent helmet of feathers and gold seemed to set off the armor of Rome that he wore.
Casca, Lord of the Keep, the Quetza of the Teotec stood before them.
The silence was oppressive.
And then, all at once, fifteen thousand voices cried out:
"Quetza!
"Quetza!
"Quetza!"
The roaring thunder of the name increased with each breath until it seemed the very force of their calling would bring down the walls of the buildings even before the Olmec had a chance at them. The Vikings, too, were taken up in this outpouring of fervor. Banging their steel swords against their shields, they tried to drown out the cries of the Teotec warriors with their even louder "Ave, Casca! Lord of the Keep! Ave, Casca, Lord of the Keep!"
Casca raised his recently reacquired short sword above his head and motioned for silence. He was obeyed. In the language of the Teotec he gave the command for the captains to come forth for orders. Gathering his leaders to him, he first ordered the captain of the Jaguars to take up positions behind the pyramid of the sun. From there they would strike on the signal given by a giant conch shell. Dismissing the Jaguar soldier, and waiting until he was out of earshot, Casca then turned to Olaf and his men.
"Vikings," he ordered, "you will place yourselves in the rear of the Serpent soldiers and hold your position."
Olaf started to grumble, but was quickly cut short by Casca's terse "Obey!"
"Yes, my lord." Olaf fumed at the idea that the Vikings might be left out of the main thrust of the coming battle, but he followed his orders.
Casca then ordered a squad of Serpent men to take the king to the hills outside and not to return until he sent known runners to bring the word that all was well. Those who could would follow from among the women and children, but all men must stand ready to fight whether they were capable of standing on their own two feet or not. These would mount the rooftops with stones and anything else they could throw down on the heads of the invaders.
The Coyote soldiers were to be on the right flank with the remaining miscellaneous troups covering the rest of the right. The Serpents were to hold the center; theirs was the place of honor. Casca dismissed his captains. He wished that he had Avidius Cassius here to borrow his brain for a moment. Avidius might have been a butcher, but the son-of-a-bitch knew how to plan and organize a battle. Shit, I'm okay for small unit actions, but I never had to deal with anything like this… Self-doubt afflicted Casca. Well, all I can do is the best I can, but it won't be anything fancy.
The Olmecs were coming into sight. From the tops of the highest buildings the faint-hearted already had begun their death wails which Casca soon stopped with the order to cut the throat of anyone who made a sound he didn't authorize. Separating a few of the toughest-looking troops, he positioned them on the exits and avenues leading off the plaza. He wanted the Olmecs to stay where he could keep an eye on them. Where the Hades are Tezmec and Totzin? Part of his question was answered as he saw the high priest of the Jaguar standing in full regalia watching the proceedings from his temple top. Well enough. That's a good place for the shriveled-up little bastard. But of Tezmec there was no sign.
Giving orders right and left, Casca raced around the square checking on his men and their leaders. Making sure his Vikings were in position, he gave his final orders… leaving Olaf with a smile on his face.
Teypetel sat on his litter, an obscenely fat, royal gargoyle. He wore only a robe made from the hide of the great spotted cat he held holy. Otherwise he was naked. The eighty slaves carrying his monster litter strained and sweated under the lash of his priest soldiers. They crested a small rise, and there before them lay the city of Teotah.
Teypetel's fat lips pulled back from his gums, exposing the needle teeth. He ran his tongue over the sharp teeth as if already tasting the blood that would flow so freely from the bodies to be slaughtered by his soldiers and him this day.
Teypetel gave his orders to his commanders. The Olmecs spread out on the plains facing the city, forming an arc tapering to the ends but thickened in the center. The Olmec plan was to use the points of the arc to encircle and outflank Casca's forces while the strong center smashed into the Teotec and kept them concentrated there until the horns of the arc reached each other and the encirclement was complete. Teypetel knew he had numerical superiority on his side; that and the aid of the Jaguar soldiers loyal to the would-be priest-king Totzin were enough to guarantee victory.
Now, surely the Teotec must be aware of his presence. They would be in a panic to get their troops organized and ready for fighting. That combined with what must surely be the panic of the civilian population would greatly hinder the efforts of the city to defend itself.
Smiling at the thought of the panic that his approach must be bringing, Teypetel ordered his drums to begin drums so large it took six slaves to carry each. The drums were positioned every two hundred feet in the rear of his troops. On his signal, they beat as one, a terrible rolling sound, like thunder in the valley.
The sound of distant thunder reaching the defenders in the city confused them. The skies were clear. Was this an ill omen?
Casca looked to the sound, the sun sparkling off his brilliant feathered robe, the same robe he had worn on the day of his sacrifice. Shading his eyes with his right hand he watched the soldiers of the Olmecs spread out and begin to move in toward the city. From this distance the invading army looked like the horns of one of the African bulls he had seen in the arena at Rome. To the rear of the soldiers he could just make out the huge drums and their attendants. So that's what's going on. Relaying to his men below that the thunder was only caused by giant drums, he ran down to the square. Taking a thousand warriors with him, he raced to the city's edge where the broad avenue stopped and the lesser trails began.
The enemy was approaching through the tall fields and the rows of cultivated, spiked maguey plants. Lining his warriors in three ranks, Casca waited. The drumming sound was almost overpowering. Steadily the Olmec approached. One hundred of the thousand warriors Casca had taken were archers. By his standards they were nothing to compare with the archers of the Scythians and Parthians. They lacked the laminated bows of those famous fighters. The Teotec bows were lighter, and they were shooting arrows of cane from the marshes, tipped with sharpened bits of stone. But they were what he had, and he planned to use them. He had the archers stationed behind the rearmost rank of warriors.
Carefully, Casca watched his men for any sign of panic. They were standing fast, the ruddy, square faces composed and placid. Never had a Roman commanded an army of such brilliance. With their feathered headdresses and plumed wicker shields, the warriors seemed more like terrible beasts or birds than mere men. They carried deadly weapons. Their lances were tipped with flint and obsidian. Their clubs were edged with the same razor-sharp stones. The nobles among them each vyed with the others in their elaborate war suits. Many wore enough gold and precious stones to set even an avaricious Caesar's mouth watering with envy. They waited, confident. After all, they had a god with them.
The Olmec stopped their approach one hundred yards from the soldiers of the Teotec. Their drums were silent. The sudden stillness had a strange, eerie quality.
Casca advanced out from his line of warriors to where he was clearly visible, escorted by only one Serpent soldier, the escort carrying one of the spears he had been given by Vlad the Dark when Vlad learned he was to be one of Casca's bodyguards. Vlad had insisted on the man taking the Viking spear.
Casca walked slowly. The Roman cuirass seemed to be a second skin, except there was still one place over the ribs on his left side where a knot of thread holding the metal discs affixed cut into his skin, slowly wearing a sore spot. Shit, he thought, I meant to have that fixed. The damn thing's going to hurt all day.
Filling his lungs with air and raising his right arm in salute, Casca bellowed out:
"Teypetel! Dog king of the Olmec! Come forth!"
Casca's voice clearly reached Teypetel.
Stunned, with surprising agility Teypetel leaped from his litter. Dog! He dares call me a dog! Never in all his life had anyone dared to insult Teypetel. Not even his mother. For she knew full well that he would have cut her heart out and eaten it as he had done to his own brothers when they contested his right to the throne.
Pushing his way through to the front ranks, Teypetel stood there, gross, huge, his breasts like those of a fat woman. He towered over every one of his warriors by at least a head. His arms were larger than the thighs of his biggest and strongest warrior. His skin was oiled. In his right hand he carried a battleaxe of native copper, hand-beaten, and as large as the skull of a deer. Using the instrument to bash the brains out of a soldier who was too slow in moving out of his way, he reached the foremost rank and stepped out.
Casca took a look at his opponent. Shit, he thought, that is one large hunk of suet.
A distance of two hundred feet separated them.
Teypetel, too, sized up the man confronting him. From this distance Casca did not seem so godlike… even if he did wear strange armor…
Teypetel's white pointed teeth sparkled. "Are you the one called the Quetza?" His speech had a slight sibilance to it caused by the sharpened teeth.
Casca stepped out a few more steps.
"Yes, molester of small boys and dogs, I am the Quetza."
Taken aback by the repeated offense and wondering, How did he know about the dogs? Teypetel paused. But quick anger rose to his face, making his head feel as though he had drunk too much pulque, and in that anger he caved in the skull of his own nearest guard. The brains splattered on his feet. He roared: "Come forth and fight! Let us do battle here." Even in his rage he was rational enough to note that in the open his troops could easily butcher the few warriors with the one called Quetza.
Casca laughed, his voice sneering as he replied:
"No such deal, lard ass. You come to us. If you have the guts. And from here I can see that you have enough for at least six fat women."
Enraged, Teypetel broke the neck of a novice priest who had come too close to his massive right hand. Summoning his captains to him, Teypetel began to give them explicit orders that the foreigner was to be taken alive.
While this was going on, Casca took the spear from his aide. It was a good weapon, iron-tipped, stout ash stock. Expelling a deep breath in a long controlled burst as the shaft left his hand, Casca hurled the spear. It arced across the distance between him and the Olmec king.
Teypetel looked up in time to see the shaft arcing toward him, giving him a hell of a fright. He threw the leader of his center forces in front of him. The iron blade went into the warrior's back and protruded a full arm's length from his chest, the point of the spear stopping just short of the Olmec king who quickly scuttled back to the rear ranks. No one could throw a spear that far. Not one that heavy…
Aw, crap. Missed him, Casca thought.
As Teypetel retreated, Casca's jeering voice followed; taunting: "What's the matter, lard ass? Afraid?"
Reaching the safety of his rear ranks, Teypetel screamed in blind fury: "Kill them! Attack!"
The legions of the Olmec obeyed. They raced to overrun the few pitiful soldiers who confronted them, their voices rising in animal cries. Predominant was the call of the hunting jaguar. The drums urged them on.
The center of the Olmecs moved in to crush Casca's force, and the horns began their pincer movement. But Teypetel had miscalculated. The wings were in confusion. They could move but to where? They could not surround the whole city. The buildings would break up their formation. So they waited.
The center closed to one hundred feet, and when they did. Casca gave the order for his men to fall flat on their faces while the archers behind loosed waves of arrows over them straight into the faces and bodies of the overconfident Olmecs. The thin reed arrows found their way into the eyes and open mouths of many screaming warriors. The Olmecs paused. Casca leaped to his feet and ordered his men to conduct a fighting withdrawal. They led the Olmecs deeper and deeper into the confines of the city along the broad, building-banked thoroughfare. Casca and his men would run back to get ahead of the Olmecs for a space, then fall to the prone position as the archers let fly another wave of arrows. Leapfrogging in this manner they hurt the Olmecs, not enough to stop them, but enough to drive them wild with frustration.
Gradually Casca led back to where the main body of his army waited. The Olmecs would have run two or more miles, while his own troops would be fresh for the fight. It could make a difference, equalizing Casca's disadvantage of smaller numbers.
An arrow bounced off the back of Casca's armor. Several of his men had fallen. As the Olmecs reached Casca's casualties, those seriously wounded were speared to death; those who would live were held for the coming sacrifices.
As the Olmecs poured into the city their ranks were ever more congested by the width of the streets, forcing them to crowd in on one another in a great, uncontrollable mass.
The Olmec officers screamed in frustration, trying to get control of their men, but it was too late. The units were mixed. They were following only those directly in front of them. Behind the melee, riding his enormous litter, Teypetel entered the city bellowing for his men to kill, kill. In his excitement he took the whip from one of his slavemasters and lashed the backs of the litter slaves into bloody ribbons as they struggled and gasped through open mouths, laboring to carry the tremendous load of the litter with its obese passenger.
Casca's men had fallen back now to the front ranks of the waiting Serpent soldiers. Breathless, they found their way to the rear as the ranks opened to let them pass, then closed again. The oncoming wave of the Olmecs met the closed wall of the Serpents. The Olmecs stood for a moment frozen in time, face to face with the Teotec, unable to move. The oncoming ranks of the Olmecs then pushed their brothers against the Teotec line. The screams of the fighting masses of men flooded the air, drowning the death cries of those who fell.
The Vikings stood firm in the rear, their weapons ready. Holdbod the Berserker was almost beside himself with frustration. Swaying back and forth on his heels, he cried for Olaf to let him go, that he would kill enough for everyone. Tears running down his face in anguish, he obeyed Olaf's order to stand firm, but the strain on him was terrible.
The sheer weight of the Olmec masses was more than Casca's men could withstand. Step by step the Olmecs forced the Teotecs back but now a rain of missiles began falling on them from the rooftops, from the force Casca had stationed there; the old ones were lending their support. A chamber pot still filled from last night's use broke the nose of an Olmec captain who broke into a frenzy as the filth ran into his mouth and down his chest. The old man responsible cackled and jumped up and down in glee. The protesting Olmec's agony was stilled by a flint-tipped spear pushing out the back of his skull.
Casca stood in the front ranks for a moment to let his soldiers see him, and with the aid of his Gladius Iberius he chopped off the heads of a dozen weapons and slew even more of the Olmecs, the thick-bladed Roman sword slicing through the thin armor of the Olmecs, laying chests and heads open.
The Olmecs in the front were sucking air through open mouths, laboring to breathe. The long run was taking its toll, but to the eyes of Totzin it appeared that the Olmecs were winning. After all, they were in the center of the city. He signaled to his men to join the Olmecs. They did, but these traitorous Jaguar soldiers of Teotah soon found themselves inextricably mixed with the Olmecs. Hundreds were cut down in the confusion by their new allies.
Totzin disappeared…
The time was now.
Casca suddenly screamed orders above the clamor of battle.
The ranks of the Serpent soldiers immediately fell back on themselves, running to the rear to regroup, leaving a vacuum that the confused Olmecs filled.
The Olmecs halted, transfixed by the sight before them, the totally unexpected.
Giants.
Giants with shaggy faces and light-colored hair wearing a shiny skin the Olmec's stone-tipped weapons bounced off without doing any damage. Terrible beings with shining weapons that sang above their heads and sliced through all who got in their way.
The Vikings.
Casca's "anvil," they stood rockline and solid and carved the men opposing them into unrecognizable facsimiles of humanity. The Olmec spirit broke at the indestructibility of these fearsome apparitions who uttered strange cries to strange gods… "Odin!"… "Thor!" and shouted "Casca! Casca! Casca" as they moved forward, a knot of steel before which everything died. In their terror the Olmecs broke and began to fight their way back down the long thoroughfare anything to get away from this place of slaughter. In their frenzied rush to get away, those in front killed those behind. The panic spread like wildfire. The Olmec units collapsed in on themselves. Thousands were trampled underfoot as their brothers fought to get away from the horrible shining ones behind them.
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…