He left me crippled because I failed him.
Akachi should have defeated the street-sorcerer, once again banishing Mother Death to the bloody Desert. He should have cut Efra’s heart from her chest, sacrificed her on the altar.
He wanted to protest. It wasn’t fair! He’d been unaware he faced the Hearts of both Smoking Mirror and Mother Death! He hadn’t understood. No one warned him!
It didn’t matter.
His first real test as a man and as a nahual, and he failed both his god and his father. This second chance was more than he deserved. His lost fingers were a small price to pay.
The sounds of violence escalated. Peering through the smoke and raining ash he saw figures struggling. A squad of Hummingbird Guard, discernible only by their flawless efficiency, battled a mob of Growers. The nahual were deadly, bludgeoning Dirts, shattering skulls with ebony cudgels, smashing bones and joints. Growers littered the ground, clutching wounds, or lying motionless. And still they came, a wave of stinking humanity, clawing and punching, screaming with insensate rage.
Helpless, Akachi watched as the occluded shapes dragged down one of the Guard and smashed their head in with a fist-sized stone. He wanted to charge into the chaos, shred the veil between realities, unleash the blood-hunger of Gau Ehiza, his puma animal spirit. He couldn’t. No narcotics swam his veins. He was a nahualli, untrained in physical combat.
Akachi ground his teeth. One by one, the Guard fell.
Coward, he berated himself.
No. To charge out there and die in the street would be purest folly. He alone knew the truth. Cloud Serpent gave him a task, commanded him to hunt the Hearts of Mother Death and Smoking Mirror.
Two stupid Dirt girls.
Except they weren’t. Even ignoring the fact Nuru was a street-sorcerer, the women were backed by gods. They fought the same war he did, for the same prize. The last Heart alive would go to the Gods’ Ring and ascend to be Heart’s Mirror. They’d be granted immortality and become the Voice of the Gods. Their own god would rise to rule the pantheon, replacing the fallen Father Death.
They play the same game.
Game. War.
Was there a difference?
As long as mortals did the fighting and the gods remained aloof, Bastion would survive. Another war among the gods would surely destroy the city, end humanity.
This was how it had to be, humans acting as extensions to the will of the gods.
Blood in the streets, running deep in gutters lining every alley and building. Never a precious drop wasted.
The last of the Hummingbirds went down under the weight of Grower numbers. The Dirts hefted limp corpses, paraded them like trophies. In moments, the street was again empty, the victorious chanting fading to nothing.
Do they even know why they fight?
The fools smashed churches, goaded on by Loa manipulators, ignorant of the consequences.
They fight a war that could end all Bastion, snuff the last spark of humanity forever.
“Pastor?” called Jumoke from the church’s main hall.
Akachi returned inside.
“I found a small amount of aldatu, and jainkoei,” the acolyte informed him.
Hunger stabbed through Akachi, and he struggled to crushed it. He hadn’t thought there was any jainkoei left.
Weaving through the assorted detritus, Jumoke deposited the narcotics atop the blood-stained sacrificial altar. Some of those stains were Akachi’s.
Is it sacrilege to use an altar as a simple table?
About to scold the boy, Akachi saw the badly blended pile. The cured mushrooms had been hastily ground together with the jainkoei. Pale flecks jutted from the mess. He must have prepared this days ago, back when he rode the ragged edge of brain-burn. He had no recollection of making the blend, nor what he intended it for.
The aldatu, a powerful hallucinogen that thinned the veil between worlds, he’d need to become the blood-tailed hawk. The jainkoei, he did not.
The hunger returned, creeping like a beaten dog. Desire. Longing. A need to open his soul to the will of his god. Anything to once again be the centre of Cloud Serpent’s attention, if only for a heartbeat.
Akachi despaired he’d ever feel that again. He craved it. This tiny amount of jainkoei would give him the smallest taste of what he desired.
“I can fish out the jainkoei,” offered Jumoke.
Akachi swallowed. It was the right thing to do. Save it for later. Never ingest narcotics beyond what you require for the sorcery. Over and over the teachers beat that into the acolytes.
“No,” said Akachi, swallowing his doubts. “Leave it. I…” The dream. Zalika. The staff. The Northern Cathedral. “I may need Cloud Serpent to guide me.” He darted a glance at the acolyte. “The Loa incite the Growers. The ring is dangerous.”
Jumoke nodded agreement, face expressionless. “Of course.”
How could Akachi explain? He’d battled Mother Death, the most ancient god, and been slain. The Lord of the Hunt intervened, manifested right here in this very church, and brought him back. He was Cloud Serpent’s Heart, tasked to hunt and kill the enemies of Bastion.
He alone among all the nahual understood how serious this Grower uprising was.
No one else knows Mother Death has returned!
And yet, he had no idea what to do. Yes, he must hunt the two Dirt women, but which was the priority? What if they split up? Cloud Serpent’s command amounted to a rather vague get it done. Even the dream hadn’t told him what to do with the staff.
Vision, he corrected. Not a dream.
He wanted to search through the Book of Bastion, hunting for references to the Fifth Sun.
He felt utterly lost.
Being Cloud Serpent’s Heart made him neither wise nor knowledgeable. He was the same untested priest who left the Northern Cathedral barely a week ago. His experiences changed him, but gave no answers.
Should I pass along what I know?
Who should he report to?
The Hearts of the other gods were out there, somewhere in Bastion. Though the sects of nahual worked together to shepherd the souls of the city, they each served their own god. It was an uneasy alliance at the best of times, politicking and manipulation smouldering in the background. Now, with The Lord dead, those embers would spark to life. That smouldering strife would escalate to a true inferno. Alliances would form and be broken. Assassinations and backstabbing would become commonplace.
Trust was a luxury only enjoyed during times of peace.
Each sect will hunt and kill the Hearts of the opposing gods.
Akachi was now a target, someone worth killing.
Bishop Zalika’s god was dead. Much as she hated him, she might be one of the few nahual who had no cause to wish him harm.
The dream. She wouldn’t willingly give him the staff. He knew that to be true.
Is she still a Bishop?
If not, who ruled the Northern Cathedral?
Too many questions and no answers.
He needed to go to the Cathedral as much to learn the state of the ring as to warn whoever was now in charge.
What happens if your god dies?
He shuddered at the thought. To be cast away like that. One moment she was the highest ranked nahual in the northern quarter. Now, was she even a priest?
It doesn’t matter. Zalika doesn’t matter. Only Bastion matters.
The gods played their game through their mortal representatives, but if the city fell, everyone lost. Nothing would survive.
Reporting what had happened to a ranked nahual, Akachi realized, would be a mistake. It would draw attention he could ill-afford.