Naamah's Blessing (62 page)

“The Divine Lord Pachacuti offers you mercy!” he cried. “All who
wish to join him are welcome! Lay down your weapons, and they will be returned to you in exchange for your loyalty!”

The
Sapa Inca’s
men roared in refusal, beating their wooden shields with the butt-ends of their clubs.

The herald repeated the offer once more, and once more, it was refused. He returned to our company, and our warriors parted ranks so that Raphael’s litter might be brought to the forefront of their lines.

The litter was lowered, and Raphael stepped forth from it. He wore a long red tunic of fine wool, a great collar of gold, and a flared golden headdress atop his tawny mane. As much as I had come to loathe him, I had to own that he cut a stunning figure. Standing atop the hillside, he raised one hand, then lowered it in an abrupt gesture.

From behind our lines, the black river moved forward, trickling between men and gathering to form a vast tide that poured down the hillside, blanketing the valley.

It was a sight to make anyone’s skin crawl. I daresay the
Sapa Inca’s
men were brave enough, for they held their line until the black river was almost upon them, but the ants in mass were too uncanny, too terrifying. The men broke ranks and began to flee, stumbling over one another in the chaos.

Those who fell were instantly engulfed, writhing and screaming; and at that, I had to look away.

With a slight smile of satisfaction, Raphael issued a silent command for the ants to withdraw and divide. The black river parted in obedience, forming a wide swath and going still. Now our human army marched down the hillside into the swath, the herald shouting out his offer for a third time.

A few of the
Sapa Inca’s
men fought nonetheless, war-clubs clanging futilely on the steel armor of the warriors in our vanguard; and mayhap a third of their number staged a successful retreat into the foothills, having outrun the fearsome tide.

But the majority heeded the herald’s offer, flinging down their weapons and raising their hands in an age-old gesture of surrender.

We made camp in the valley. The surrendered weapons were gathered and stacked in a pile, returned one by one as each of their owners came forward to swear loyalty to Raphael de Mereliot, Lord Pachacuti.

There was awe in their faces, and I could not fault them for it. They had never seen anyone like Raphael. With his fair skin, his gilded-bronze hair, and sparks of lightning flashing in his storm-grey eyes, he well nigh appeared to be the offspring of some elemental gods; and there were the ants, ominous proof of his unnatural power. Lest anyone doubt it, a dozen skeletons littered the battlefield, bones picked clean.

“Lord Pachacuti is pleased,” the herald announced after the last of the
Sapa Inca’s
men had pledged loyalty.

Raphael inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“Lest any man among you have sworn falsely,” the herald continued, “know that the black river is ever watching.” He indicated the vast mass of ants with a sweeping gesture. “To raise a hand against Lord Pachacuti is to be devoured by it.”

They believed.

Since it was true, I could not fault them for that, either.

SIXTY-EIGHT

T
hree days later, we reached the city of Qusqu.

There were no further battles along the way. The
Sapa Inca’s
men honored their oaths and proved loyal to Raphael—or at least too fearful of the black river to resist him. We marched over wrinkled green terrain, ascending ever higher into the mountains, the climate growing colder and the air turning thinner.

Qusqu was a jewel of a city, set amidst the arid heights. Like the Nahuatl, the Quechua were skilled engineers, quarrying stone without the aid of steel implements, building terraces planted with an array of hardy crops, harnessing the power of the river that plummeted from the peak of the mountain, taming it into canals that interlaced the city, providing fresh drinking and bathing water for all before spilling into the rich valleys below.

We found the city partially abandoned and ripe for occupation. Laborers and merchants remained, but the
Sapa Inca
Yupanqui and his army had withdrawn.

“My first conquest.” Seated in his litter, Raphael drew a deep breath as we entered the city walls, as though to take possession of the air itself. “But where is the
Sapa Inca
?” He frowned. “He must surrender to me.”

One of the Quechua pointed. “There.”

There
was a fortress that loomed above the city, perched atop it like a falcon hunched over its prey, defended by high walls. A hastily
dug moat surrounded it, filled with churning water diverted from the river and channeled back into the canals.

Prince Manco scowled. “My father thinks to make a stand.”

Raphael smiled. “Oh, he does, does he? Well, let him. We’ll take the fortress at our leisure.”

Standing close enough to hear the exchange, I eyed the myriad streams of ants scuttling along the streets of Qusqu. “Do not delay overlong, my lord,” I said quietly. “The mountains do not possess the abundance of the jungle. Your black river may starve us all in this place.”

Raphael narrowed his eyes at me. “Do not presume to tell me my business, Moirin. I have no more patience for your insubordination.”

I held my tongue.

Beneath the shadow of the fortress, we settled into the city. Raphael took possession of the palace, lodging his men in its myriad rooms. He sent forth criers to announce that Qusqu was under the rule of the Divine Lord Pachacuti, and that the surrender of the
Sapa Inca
was imminent. The inhabitants left behind acknowledged his sovereignty with alacrity, terrified by the roving streams of ants. Even my own attendant entourage had been absorbed into the rivers that roamed the streets.

On Raphael’s orders, I lodged with the Maidens of the Sun, which suited my purposes better than he could have known. On that first night, Ocllo secluded herself with the high priestess for many long hours. I slept fitfully, fearing that she did not tip our hand unwisely, praying that the religious women of Qusqu would aid us. I wished I could confer with Bao and the others, but it could wait until I knew more.

In the morning, Machasu brought word that the high priestess had sent for me.

The high priestess Iniquill received me with Ocllo in attendance. She was an elderly woman with hair turned pure silver and sharp eyes beneath wrinkled lids, and one could see from her strong bones that she had been beautiful in her youth. She beckoned me close, studying me for long minutes.

“Lord Pachacuti commands an army of death and hunger with his magic,” she announced in Quechua. “This I have seen. My sister-maiden Ocllo tells me you command the gift of life with yours. This I would see.” She pointed at a wilting shrub in an earthenware pot. “If you can bring forth blossoms, I will believe.”

I bowed to her. “As you will, my lady.” Kneeling, I thought of my dream of a bulwark of flowers raised against the darkness. I brushed the plant’s broad, hairy leaves with my fingertips. “It wants water.”

“Anyone can water a plant,” Iniquill said dismissively.

“Aye, my lady,” I said. “But it can draw no more moisture from the soil than what is in the pot. If I coax it to bloom, it will die soon after, and it is a gift of life you asked to see.”

The high priestess relented grudgingly and there was a brief delay as one of the maidens was summoned to fetch a jar and water the plant until the soil was sodden, doing her best to hide her curiosity.

When she had been sent away, I knelt once more. I breathed the Breath of Trees Growing and summoned a flicker of the twilight, exhaling softly over the shrub’s wilted leaves.

The leaves stiffened and brightened, dark green lightening to a more vivid hue. The muddy soil dried visibly as the shrub brought forth dangling buds that elongated before our eyes, peach-colored petals furling back to reveal trumpet-shaped blossoms.

I glanced up at the high priestess Iniquill.

She turned her keen gaze toward Ocllo. “And you vouch for the one who is twice-born?”

“I do,” Ocllo said calmly. “The holy sacrifice Cusi has spoken with him. The gods have granted her true sight, and she saw the shadow of death upon him. He has knelt for her blessing and received the blade from her own hands.”

“Then it seems I must believe.” The elderly priestess’ wrinkled eyelids flickered. “But this strange and terrible Lord Pachacuti has not yet won the throne of Tawantinsuyo. It may yet be that the
Sapa Inca
Yupanqui will defeat him.”

“My lady, I would not be sorry to hear it,” I said honestly. “But I fear it is only a matter of time.”

In that, I was right.

Despite his irritation at my warning, within a day’s time Raphael was already at work solving the dilemma that the moated fortress presented. He ordered laborers onto the slope of the mountains where a sparse forest of evergreens grew. Trees were cut, their trunks shorn of branches and dragged through the city to the base of the fortress.

The
Sapa Inca
did not accept the inevitability of defeat. His warriors clustered on the high walls of the fortress, hurling spears and rocks down on the men who sought to wrestle the trunks in place across the moat, forming crude bridges.

If they had been men in ordinary Quechua gear of padded cotton and wooden shields, it might have proved an effective tactic. But Raphael set his trusted vanguard to accomplish the task—Prince Manco, Temilotzin, and the others clad in steel D’Angeline armor, the armor my own company had labored so hard to bring to Tawantinsuyo, never reckoning it would be seized by their own countryman and put to such a purpose. While I daresay Raphael’s men sustained many an unpleasant bruise, none took a serious wound.

Once it was done, the bridges were in place.

I saw the final battle because Raphael de Mereliot wished it so, summoning me to his side.

“All genius craves a witness, Moirin,” he said to me in a companionable manner, slinging a careless arm over my shoulders. “In that if nothing else, I am no exception—and you are
my
witness.” He squeezed me. “Does that please you?”

I shuddered beneath his touch. “No.”

“Pity,” he said absently, loosing me to raise one arm. All along the banks of the churning moat, hungry ants gathered. And they
were
hungry. I could sense it in their inchoate thoughts, hear it in the clicking of their mandibles. Their antennae twitched, waiting for orders, waiting for a promised feast.

With a smile, Raphael lowered his arm. “Go!”

The crude bridges would not have sustained a human army—but they did not have to. The black river of ants divided into a dozen streams, swarming the fallen trunks laid across the moats.

Even then, the
Sapa Inca’s
men fought. From atop the ramparts of the fortress, they emptied vessels of oil into the moat. They threw down flaming brands, and the surface of the water caught fire.

“Oh, clever!” Raphael said in admiration, gripping my arm. “Very clever!”

I pulled away from him.

He glanced at me. “You yearned for my touch once, Moirin.”

I wrapped my arms around myself. “That was a long, long time ago.”

Through the flames, the ants persevered. There were just too gods-bedamned
many
of them. Thousands after thousands, they clambered across logs crumbling into glowing embers, they forged living, writhing bridges across the moat.

Some died, sizzling. Some were swept away in the torrent and carried into the canal system.

Still, they kept coming and coming until the moat was black with their bodies. Ant crawled over ant, obedient to Raphael’s orders. They scaled the walls of the fortress in a relentless rising tide. The fortress could have held out against a human onslaught for as long as its stores lasted. It was not built to withstand this.

Soon there were screams.

I felt sick. Raphael stood beside me, his eyes wide and unseeing, his nostrils twitching as he received messages borne on the air by his unnatural insect army. “They are beginning to flee,” he informed his herald. “Tell the men to make ready.”

The herald called out the order and the men spread out around the moat, weapons at the ready.

It was only a matter of minutes before the doors to the fortress were unbarred from within. Quechua warriors in padded armor staggered
out, brushing frantically at themselves, plunging heedlessly into the waters of the moat.

The first wave of the
Sapa Inca’s
men to struggle ashore through the waist-deep water were cut down ruthlessly, hacked by swords and bludgeoned by clubs. It was not until those behind them began to cry out in supplication that Raphael ordered his men to stay their hands.

“You did not need to kill them!” I whispered in horror. “They’re fleeing!”

“They opposed me,” he replied in a pitiless tone. “Bloodshed is the only language men such as these understand.”

Ants streamed out of the fortress, regrouping in twin columns on the far side of the moat, apparently held in abeyance once more by Raphael’s order. Between the columns of ants, grown men shivered and wept, jostling one another as they cast terrified glances at the waiting ants.