Rhythmic drums, unyielding pulses like veins of a perpetual machine, heralding the end times: a world consumed by blood, greed, and fire. The boy ran away as far as he could, away from the shrieking, the guttural growls, the pitiful last cries from neighbors and family alike. He ran until the fire became ice and nothing else could be seen around, apart from the white maws of a frozen void. And as he fell to his knees, exhausted, he could feel the monster's pain, and it felt familiar. It was that raging grief that comes only through great loss and injustice. Feeling kinship for the first time in a very long time, he welcomed the embrace of the jaws of winter, and the moonless night howled, sealing their pact.
Cristina fell to the ground. Landing on the sand wasn't painful, but it still took her a while to process what had happened: the hammock had come loose on one end. She looked around — a beautiful beach with pink sands and crystal-clear waters. Cristina breathed deeply, and the warm offshore breeze caressed her lungs.
"The weather is always lovely at this part of the Seas of Id…" The voice behind her felt both soft and distant, like the shifting clouds in the sky above her. Some had the shapes of animals, others of persons… and even some resembled concepts like Love, Fear, and Hunger. Cristina got lost in those shapes; she was particularly fascinated by the cloud shaped like Rebellion, but it was suddenly scattered by a luminous particle moving at high speed. More particles soon followed, reaping engines slicing through the peace of the sky.
"I hate those pesky drones, destroying dreams and lives alike…" The voice now felt closer.
"Drones?"
"You must be careful when you dream within a dream… You wouldn't want to swim back to the Nightmare Depths, would you?" The voice felt now behind her, warm and strong. She turned around to find herself facing a tall man with a big smile. Dark and long curly hair fell over his shoulders; his dark skin glowed under the blazing sun. He held a bottle of beer in each hand and offered one to Cristina while taking a sip from the other.
"I hope you enjoy Corona, it's my favorite."
"I do, though I prefer Indio."
"Then have it your way. Don't be afraid to shape your own dreams."
Cristina took another look at the bottle in her hand. The light Corona beer was now dark; an Indio bottle had taken its place. "Who are you?" Asked the witch.
"First, we drink. Skol!" And they drank the beers in one gulp. For Cristina, it was like tasting a little piece of heaven. His gaze drifted into the oniric sea before them; he seemed thoughtful—perhaps even sad. "Cristina… do you think monsters are born or made?"
"What are you talking about?"
"My father… I think he acted guided not by wisdom but by fear. Perhaps there was another way. Long time ago, perhaps. He created his own monster and now… now the wolves are the gates. Again." He finished what was left of his beer in a single sip and let the can fall onto the sand. "When the time comes, Cristina, you must do as my brother Viðarr did and put an end to that old dog's suffering…"
"What are you talking about?" A bolt of lightning fell over the waters, and Cristina, startled, dropped the bottle. The storm broke over the crystal-clear sea, now boiling with violent rhythm.
"Atl tlachinolli, Cristina." The tall man looked at the burning water, smiling with satisfaction. "I'm sorry about your god of Sun and War. But this won’t end here. When you find it, make good use of my hammer. Even though it's lost, don't worry about returning it; It'll remember its way back home in time."
"I don't understand…"
"But keep this in mind. A hammer is both a tool and a weapon. It is easy to forget that not everything is a nail. You can use it in many ways… and in the right hands, it can tender even the hardest of flesh… Cristina…" A thunder fell just right next to her; the pink sands melted into a kaleidoscope of glass.
"Wake up!"
Cristina opened her eyes. The shrieking sound of an old anti-air siren rumbled in her ears. She sighed and exited the rusted makeshift bunker that was her room. Outside, a big purple bipedal capybara waited for her with a tray of coffee and pan de muerto.
"Good morning, Lady Cristina. Would you like some coffee and brunch?"
"Only the coffee…" she grabbed the cup somewhat rudely, "…and don't call me 'lady'."
"Sorry, Comandanta." The capybara made a gesture either mocking or imitating a military salute. "The Paly Lady sent me to check on you."
"Tell her I'm fine, will go to the frontlines now."
Cristina walked through the ruined streets of the once lively Tomb City, rubble rustling under her boots. Two months had passed since the invasion began; the initial deluge of blood and fire had simmered down into the stagnant agony of a siege, and tiredness and desperation were beginning to take their toll even on the dead. With dead Huitzilopochtli now floating —perhaps still dreaming— somewhere in the orbit of Mercury, Mictlán had lost its strongest ally, giving the Ravens the chance to push further into the Underworld. Still, the defenders of the realm had fought tooth and nail to cut off their advance, forcing the enemy into a brutal trench war with no one side able to gain any more terrain. Bound to play this game of guile and patience, Valravn could have taken the easy way out and flipped over the entire board, obliterating the topmost layer of Mictlán, but their drones had been conservative in their bombardment. They don't want to burn down their prize, at least not yet. Cristina dreaded to think about the day they finally decided to unleash that heavy rain.
A raven-shaped drone flew above her. She closed her eyes and breathed, making momentary peace with the possibility of imminent destruction. Instead of missiles, the payload was pamphlets. One of them landed on her hand. Cristina read it, exhaled an angry snort, and then crumpled it with her fist.
Kneel and Surrender.
Do not resist Order and Progress.
Váyanse a la verga, she thought, and continued her stroll towards the trenches. While climbing down an once elegant, but ruined staircase, she crossed paths with a pack of xolotls driving a makeshift armored cart. An antiquated horseless carriage, it had been reinforced with steel plates and mounted with WWI-era rusted machine guns. "Comandanta!" The canine driver yelled at her and shook the wheel just in time to avoid a crash. "Good to have you here in time for the party!" Times were truly dire if the Syndicate of Psychopomp Transportists had been given free rein to drive their post-apocalyptic contraptions inside the city.
She finally reached the frontlines at the city outskirts, where the trench warfare was methodical but brutal, an ultraviolent game of chess. She found Lorena, the pyromancer, overseeing the battlefield.
"How's everything, Lore?"
The fire-maiden neither answered nor turned her gaze away from the trenches. Her hands made a swift movement, and a section exploded into a fiery storm. Distant, painful screams followed soon.
"Nice shot," observed Cristina. The fire-maiden finally turned back and reproached her with a look. "Really, Cristina? I told you to get some fucking rest."
"I'll rest when I'm dead."
"That's what everyone down here thought. How's that working for them?"
Cristina shrugged. "Is Baruch down there?"
"Yes, right down in the trenches, hunting for some roasted Ravens." A powerful, beastly roar had joined as the bassline for the chorus of panicked screams and percussive gunshots. "You two make a terrific team," commented Cristina.
Lorena's answer was a brief smirk. She had always been a passionate fighter, and now her fire burned to avenge Huitzilopochtli. Still, Cristina worried that eventually, that very fire would either burn her candle into nothingness or explode her powder into senseless destruction. The witch sighed, wondering if they could break the siege before it broke them.
Another drone flew by, raining more propaganda. Lorena gestured again, and the falling pamphlets began to burn like fireflies in the night. The drones… Cristina took the last sip from her coffee before throwing the cup far away into the trenches. "Lorena, where's Guadalupe?"
"Last time I checked, Lupe was on the radio station," answered the daughter of the sun, "probs trying to do something about those damn metal mosquitoes."
At the radio station, Cristina found the ex-Foundation agent surrounded by old radio gear, tinkering obsessively with rusty circuits and bulbs. "Cristina!" They greeted her without turning away from the machinery, "Cristina, I cracked it!"
"Antes que nada, buenos días." La Comandata took a seat over a pile of rusty audio equipment. "Let me guess, the drones are somehow controlled by a dream…"
"They are using an oneiric frequency to control the drones… Wait!? How did you know!"
"It came to me in a dream, " the witch answered.
"For real?" Guadalupe raised an eyebrow.
"Never mind, are you thinking the same thing I am?" Cristina asked with a playful smile.
"I'll talk with the alebrijes." They nodded complicitly, "It should be ready soon."
Cristina sighed with relief. If they could neutralize the drone fleet, that would make the war even. "Thanks, Guadalupe… for everything. Get some rest, please."
"I'll do. But you have to rest too, deal?"
"Deal, but there is something I need to do first."
"What?"
"I was thinking of sending our guests a nice postcard," Cristina cracked her neck and fingers. As she was leaving the radio room, she noticed a bunch of tools littering a table. One caught her attention.
"Are you going to use this hammer? Can I borrow it?"
"Hmmm, sure, but… why would you need this hammer?"
"In case I find a nail."
Miles away, on the other side of the battlefield, Hersir Thorsten's tent was plagued by a nine-fingered vermin. Nate Hansen, former Midwestern Regional President of Valravn, had been crashing at his camp for two months straight, compulsively leeching alcohol and non-stop talking shit. Thorsten often wondered which one of his long list of sins Nate was a punishment for.
"We've been rotting in this hellhole for two months already, aren't you tired of this?" Nate poured another stream of mead into his glass. He overflowed the glass, spilling the mead over the maps and battle plans scattered across the table, much to Thorsten's dismay.
"A siege is a game of patience," replied the Hersir, trying his best not to think about his ruined documents.
"Alright, but why are we doing a fucking siege? We should bombard these savage zombies to Kingdom Come."
"We were sent here to secure the Necropolis, not to turn it into rubble." Thorsten tried to discreetly take away the mead bottle, but Nate held onto it as if it were his life.
"You were sent here to conquer this place for the High Table. And I was sent here to make sure you do your job." Since the beginning, the two were bound to clash. Thorsten could never respect a suit that shunned combat, while Hansen, despite Thorsten's legendary status among the Ravens, could only ever see the Hersir as hired muscle, another disposable grunt.
"You were sent here as a punishment for being a drunken idiot." The Hersir finally snapped. For the most part, he tried to be diplomatic, and it almost worked when Hansen was sober. Drunk Hansen, on the other hand, seemed to be emboldened by a suicidal bravado. "You insulted a very important client, and that cost you both your position and your finger."
"Should I remind you I have the total authority to relieve you of your command at any time?" Hansen's alcoholic smugness could almost be admired.
Thorsten could have easily ripped the bottle away from Nate… he could have even ripped the whole arm, but he didn't want to make more of a mess. He sighed. "You could have done it any time during these two months. But you haven't and never will. You know why?"
"Enlighten me." Hansen was now drinking straight up from the bottle.
"Because you are a spineless coward. But I have to admit it will be very amusing to see you trying and failing to lead a military operation."
Hansen looked at the Hersir in a mixture of disbelief and amusement, then downed nearly half the bottle in one gulp and spat onto the fine carpet of the tent. "You know what? I don't understand the hype around you. You are supposed to be this living legend: The Wolf of Winter! But you act more like a puppy… a true wolf would have eaten its enemies' head in one bite!"
"A true wolf? Funny that you mention that…" Thorsten smirked.
"I already hate this bitch Cristina so much. I'd just blow up her and her snake friends with our drones. Kaput. And then we’d return to Eurtec, covered in gold and laurels."
"Rule number one of war, Nate: Respect your enemies. This is exactly the attitude that brought you down in the first place."
"Come on, Thorsten! She is the only thing standing between us and glory. Once we conquer Mictlán, the Table will see the mistake they made. They'll give me back my old job, and I'll get a new finger. A bionic one!"
"Sure, Nate… sure." In his vast experience, the old warrior had learned that some battles were not worth fighting.
Nate's phone rang and he rushed to check it. Thorsten took the opportunity to finally grab and quickly hide the mead bottle away.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck! This is bad!" Nate's face was livid. "Our drones are down everywhere… They jammed the oneiric signal! The dreamers are convulsing! Fuck, fuck, fuck. The Table is going to blood-eagle me."
"Clever girl." Thorsten smiled. For the first time in weeks, things were starting to get interesting again. "She never ceases to amaze me."
"Why the fuck are you smiling? Let's make something clear: if I'm going down, you are coming with me…" Nate wanted to keep shitalking, but the words stuck in his throat. It was only for a brief moment, but he thought he saw a cold gleam in Thorsten’s gaze—predatory eyes that stirred a primal terror within him. The Wolf of Winter. He tried to regain composure. Ridiculous, Nate thought, he is nothing but a brute.
At this point, Thorsten was not even paying attention to his unwelcomed guest. Through the entrance of the tent, he had noticed a faint glow, seemingly coming from above. He stepped to get a look outside: officers and soldiers were running chaotically, failing to respond to the drone crisis. Thorsten looked up; the painted ceiling of the Underworld cavern had been adorned with a message, etched in glowing letters:
Kneel and Surrender?
Kneel and Surrender your ass, Ravenfuckers!
Thorsten got back to the tent, smiling internally. He hadn't felt so young in ages. "You know what, Nate? You may be an idiot, but you may have a point. It's time to end this dance once and for all."
"Finally!" Nate exclaimed sardonically. "I was wondering when you would grow a pair."
Thorsten decided to ignore that last part. "Tell all the troops to get ready. Prepare the heavy artillery…"
"Hell yeah!" Nate raised his fist.
"And a big white flag."
"What?"
Fallen drones littered No Man's Land. The bulk of Mictlán's army, difuntos, alebrijes and xolotls alike, remained entrenched but alert and ready for a fight. The Pale Lady and Cristina's group stood in the open, waiting for the Ravens to arrive at the site of the parley.
"I don't like this," said Baruch the jaguar-nahual, "this has to be the most obvious trap ever."
"They could blow us up with artillery at any time," observed Guadalupe.
"If it comes to that, I'll raise a shield to protect us," Cristina wanted to reassure them as much as she wanted to reassure herself.
"Are you sure it will hold?"
"For the most part…"
A guttural shriek pierced the silence, while the sound of drums and marching boots rumbled through No Man's Land. Thousands of voices, chanting gutturally in a dead language, echoed as the Raven army approached the defenders of Mictlán. An imposing figure led the army, a two-meter-tall frame encased in power armor. His footsteps were heavy, rising louder and stronger above the rest of the percussive cacophony. He dragged a remarkably large battle-axe, leaving a scar through the sacred soil of the underworld: a weapon of such a size and wickedness that it would have looked ridiculous if wielded by anyone else. Two women flanked the giant, one had a metallic arm and donned a white, expressionless mask hiding murderous intent. The other was a spectral apparition, an ancient herald of dread and ruin. Behind the Valkyrie and La Llorona, a flag bearer carried the white flag of truce, and a man in a suit struggled to keep the warrior's pace. The boots finally stopped their march, and while the guttural choir ceased chanting, the cruel echoes still haunted the air.
"Is all this circus really necessary?" complained the suit.
"Shut up, Nate." Murmured Thorsten, and he raised his voice and weapon to address his enemies. "I am Hersir Thorsten, commander of the 13th Armored and the 25th Infantry Division of the Valravn Corporation. I have come here to parley with the Ruler of Mictlán."
"That would be me," replied the Pale Lady. "You shall address me as any of my many names and titles: La Santa Muerte, La Catrina, La Patrona, La Dama Pálida, La Niña Blanca, La Flaquita, La Huesuda, La Tiznada, La Parca, La Malquerida, La Viuda Blanca, La Dueña de los Alebrijes, la Madrina, Azrael, and Mictecacíhuatl. Or just Catrina. And here standing besides are Las Viboras, Defenders of Mictlán: Lorena, the three-times blessed Daughter of the Sun, Baruch, Jaguar-warrior of Clan Bah, Guadalupe, Righter of Wrongs and Defector from the Foundation, and Cristina, Best Student of the Black Queen, the Thief of Books, la Bruja, and Comandanta of my armies."
"Cristina!" exclaimed Thorsten in an oddly sincere and warm tone. "It is an honor to finally meet you!"
"Is it, though?" snarked the witch.
"Of course, since we started this little dance of Ravens and Vipers, I couldn't help but admire your martial talents. This is the most fun I've had in centuries."
"And I have no idea who the hell you are."
"Meh, I'm nothing but a simple man. Standing beside me are Valravn's finest: Sister Sifvar," he first gestured towards the Valkyrie, and then towards La Llorona, "and Sister Amelia." He then rolled his eyes and pointed to the suited man, "That one, standing over there, is Nate. Don't mind him."
"I am the Midwestern Regional President of Valravn," protested Nate.
"Former Midwestern Regional President of Valravn," corrected Thorsten. "Anyways, Cristina, let's waste no more time. You have masterfully disabled our drone fleet, a hard hit for our offensive capabilities. Unfortunately for you, I still have plenty of ways to reduce the Tomb City to ashes. Let me show you." He then nodded to Sifvar, and the Valkyrie pressed a button on her armpad. Almost immediately, a missile rose from one of the launchers at the Valravn base directly to the Necropolis. It hit one of the palace bell towers, shattering its pieces across the Lady's citadel. Screams of terror echoed through the ranks of the dead, and the old merc cruelly smiled. "As you see, I can reduce this whole place to rubble at any time, but that is not what I want."
Mierda. Cristina said internally. Still, she was determined to remain firm. "We have endured the siege. We will endure your missiles. We will endure everything you throw at us. We will never surrender."
"I know," Thorsten kept smiling. "And I wouldn't want it any other way. What is the point of a battle just by pressing buttons? No, no, Hel no! I wouldn't want that! I have come here to challenge you, Champion of Mictlán."
"Challenge me?"
"To a duel. Axcan quema, tehuatl, nehuatl… Now, you and I. Until someone dies or kneels. If I win, Mictlán surrenders; if you win, we pack and leave you alone."
"Have you fuckin lost your mind?" Nate shouted hysterically, "Why would you risk the mission in a stupid duel? We got them! Just bomb them to oblivion! Enough! You are getting court-martialed. I hereby relieve you of your position! Sifvar! Amelia! Arrest this madman!"
Thorsten didn't even turn to look at Nate. "Sifvar, I need silence," he spoke calmly but annoyed. The Valkyrie just nodded and drew a kukri knife. For a moment, it felt as if she was about to slice his throat, but instead, she hit him hard in the face with the pommel. The former Midwestern Regional President of Valravn fell to the ground, sobbing and grabbing his broken nose as blood ran from it, tainting the Holy grounds of Mictlán.
"Honestly," Thorsten continued, "I don't know why the High Table wants this place so badly. Neither do I know what unholy business Zenith is planning to do with this sacred place. And I couldn't care less. I have fought their wars long enough to understand they are meaningless! Devoid of any higher purpose beyond their money! Fuck the High Table! And Fuck Zenith! I want this place for me! And I will earn it like a warrior!" His eyes shone when speaking those last words, and, for a brief moment, Cristina perceived a strange aura around Thorsten. It felt like the rage and hunger of a primordial beast, the fangs of a conqueror and a devourer.
"You seem too eager to betray your masters. Why should we trust you to keep your word?" asked Cristina.
"We mercenaries may not have loyalty. But we do have honor. The High Table may believe gold is enough to buy my obedience, but I have never truly given them my word. I am, however, giving it to you now."
The revolutionary group remained silent, unsure of how to approach the bizarre challenge. After a few eternal moments, Guadalupe decided to be the first one to speak: "I don't like this guy," they said in a quiet voice.
"Me neither, but what options do we have?" answered Lorena.
"Not much really," La Comandanta felt a shiver down her skin. She could sense the air charged with something… ancient and ominous.
"Cristina," the Pale Lady grabbed her arm, "you felt it too, right? I don't think deceit is what we should fear from this one. This man is on a mission. A sacred one. That doesn't make him righteous, but we must accept his challenge."
Cristina sighed. “I know.” There was no way they could win a conventional war, especially if the Ravens chose to unleash the full force of their arsenal. But settling it with a duel… that almost seemed too good to be true.
Never mind, she thought. Even if it was some twisted trap or a cruel joke, she had to take the chance and make the most of whatever happened next. Improvisation had always been one of her magical talents—at least, that’s what Allison used to say.
She turned to face the axe-wielding giant.
“Thorsten, we accept your challenge.”
An alebrije had brought a finely decorated art-decó makeup case. The Lady of Death opened and took out a brush. "This makeup is part of me. It has my soul and my skin. It will bind you to the Xolotl, it will bind you to my roots. It will open to you the doors of primordial magic, but you will have to discover that on your own. It is a gift that I can only give to those dearest to me, for it will make you a living Catrina. It is both a war paint and a costume for celebration. Let it protect you both in war and peace."
And the Lady began to humbly apply the makeup over Cristina's face. Behind this seemingly mundane act, there was something holy, ancient, and deep taking place. It was an act of death and rebirth, the true power of symbols. La Catrina, the playful and colorful embodiment of the bittersweet joy of Día de Muertos. La Santa Muerte, the terrifying yet merciful Saint of Death, revered equally by both the victims and the victimizers. And the deep and primordial roots of Mictecacíhuatl, a being so antique that it defied comprehension. A trinity of symbols overlapping on each, a superposition that should be paradoxical yet still made perfect sense, such was the mysterious nature of the gods. "Now you are ready to go, querida."
Cristina nodded and raised her fist with quiet resolve. Then, wielding a macuahuitl, she walked to the No Man's Land, where the Hersir awaited her. Around them, her friends, the dead, alebrijes, and xolotls, as well as the Valkyrie, La Llorona, the suit, and the Raven mercenaries, all of them awaited eagerly the spectacle that would decide the fate of this war.
"I have waited for so long for this moment," Thorsten kept smiling like a child about to open a gift. "Cristina, this is such a beautiful moment."
"Let's get this over with."
"As you wish." The sound of servo motors running was barely enough to warn Cristina of the upcoming attack. Thorsten moved his axe with speed and precision, unlikely for a weapon and a man of that gargantuan size. Cristina felt adrenaline rushing through her veins. She avoided the strike, but it was a close call.
"You are faster than you look, gonna give you that," said La Bruja.
"Good that you are quick too, would be a shame if this dance ended so soon…" Thorsten looked down, confused—his legs had begun to sink into the ground, trapping him. Cristina jumped on him, trying to break his guard with her weapon, but the Hersir blocked her attack and pushed her away. Then he effortlessly broke away from the trap.
But Cristina had not wasted her time. She could feel it in her skin, the Pale Lady's makeup gifting her a new connection to the taumathurgical forces of Mictlán. She was now confident and felt in control. At her command, multiple stone pillars, carved with the angry faces of forgotten spirits, rose from the ground and fell over his enemy. The Hersir jumped back, narrowly avoiding getting crushed.
"Bravo! Marvelous play!" exclaimed Thorsten. He seemed mostly unbothered, and that was starting to annoy Cristina.
"Look, you may be big and strong, but I'm a witch. My tricks are infinite, and you are fighting on my terms. You may start to consider kneeling if you value your life."
"Kill me, if it's so easy. But don't pretend you're not enjoying this like me."
"Is this a game for you?" Her annoyance gave way to rage, as all the horrors unleashed by the Ravens flashed through her memory. Guatemala. Bolivia. México. "After all the lives you have taken? All the suffering you have caused? Does that not matter to you?" Cristina shouted.
"Atl tlachinolli. Burning Water… the Nahua captured it perfectly. What a beautiful way to encapsulate the paradoxical nature of War."
"Shut up!" Cristina charged again with her macuahuitl, but she was easily parried.
"War is a paradox. Terrible but also inevitable and… quite fun. It brings out both the best and the worst of humanity. And it is often necessary to make war to keep the peace. It shouldn't, but that contradiction makes perfect sense. Burning Water. But don't play dumb, you already know this, guerrillera."
"You can wax poetically all you want, but you are just another greedy fascist who only cares for himself! Do you have any idea of what is at stake here? Do you know what will happen if Mictlán falls?"
"I know Mictlantecuhtli threatened to break the Pillars of Earth. But it won't be necessary, I'll do it myself."
Those last words caught Cristina off guard, and Thorsten saw the opening; his axe lunged like a bird of prey upon its quarry. But then, he felt an impact on his weapon and lost his grip. To his surprise, it was not the macuahuitl that had parried his attack; Cristina had suddenly conjured a gleaming cloud on her hand, from which a double-barreled shotgun emerged. She fired it without hesitation and blew away his opponent's weapon. Then, she did not waste time and rolled across the ground to position herself behind him, firing again at the main servomotor of the armor.
"You parried my axe with a bullet!" Thorsten shouted, genuinely excited.
"I warned you that my tricks were limitless. And now you can't move in this armor with the servo-motors ruined." A regular round fired by a regular person wouldn't have damaged the reinforced mechanism of the Hersir's armor. Fortunately, Cristina was anything but a regular person.
Thorsten just smiled and shrugged; the armor fell to the ground. He now faced the witch, unarmored and bare-chested.
"Do you kneel now?" The witch pointed the macuahuitl at his throat.
"And ruin all this fun? You know that is not happening."
"Perhaps I misjudged you. You are not greedy, you are just insane!" And then she plunged the bladed weapon into his ribs. But to her surprise, she did not feel the cut in the flesh, nor did she see blood pouring. Instead, the blades of the macuahuitl shattered. At the impact zone, his skin had become dark and dense, a hardened fiber.
"What? How?"
"Nanomachines, girl."
"Come on!"
The hardened punch she received in the face would have killed her if she hadn't raised a kinetic barrier just in time to absorb it. Still, she flew a few meters into the air.
"Cristina!" Shouted Baruch, and he tried to rush towards her, Lorena and Guadalupe following him. But their path was promptly blocked by a kukri-wielding Sifvar and Amelia's biomechanically implanted claws. "No one shall interfere with the duel," threatened the Valkyrie.
"She is right," The Pale Lady touched Baruch's shoulder, "This is Cristina's fight and only hers."
"But…"
"She is still alive. And I have faith in her."
Baruch felt relieved as he saw Cristina standing, albeit with difficulty. But now Thorsten approached her with raised arms, which now glowed in the shape of a pair of spectral, beastly claws.
"What the hell are you?" murmured the witch.
"I don't want to kill you, Cristina," Thorsten spoke for the first time in a somber tone. Gone was his past playful demeanor. Shit, thought Cristina, he is serious now. Her confidence, strong like steel just a few moments ago, lay now shattered by the punch she just received. She was not facing an ordinary foe, but the abominable offspring of unholy magic and technological depravity.
"I won't kneel."
"Perhaps you'll change your mind if we take a trip together to the origin." Thorsten's raised claws pierced the painted sky, and the curtain fell, cut into pieces; they were now standing at the Cempasuchitl Fields. A wolf howled, and a blinding snow began to swallow the orange flowers. "Behold Fimbulwinter, the prelude of Ragnarok! Man shall become the wolf of man!"
"Why on Earth do you want to destroy the Pillars?"
"Atl tlachinolli. Paradox. The men who destroyed my village and enslaved my family spoke of mercy. And yet they carried a tortured god on a cross. But I get it now, the paradox makes perfect sense."
Cristina's magic absorbed another fist, but she could still feel part of the pain. "I can no longer hear my gods; there is no Thor in the storm, nor Wotan in the skies. Perhaps they are dead, or perhaps they have forsaken us. Perhaps they were always traitors and deceivers. Doesn't really matter. The only Rule of Nature is that the strong shall devour the weak." He continued pummeling Cristina. "The Christian God was stronger than my gods, but even He was replaced by a bigger fish: The God of Money!"
Cristina's arms weighed like anchors, yet she kept her kinetic guard up. Thorsten continued punching both with fist and words: "Your gods are also weakened, barely a shadow of their former selves. Think of the fate of hummingbird god, Huitzilopochtli…"
"Don't you dare say that name!" Cristina's voice almost broke.
"Even if you could defeat me, do you think you can hold Mictlán forever? Think, Cristina, think! Worse things will come for you! Worse Gods will rise, even crueler than the God of Money! I am your only lifeline!"
He threw another punch, but this time it didn't hit Cristina. Instead, it fractured the cempasuchilt, the broken fragments of orange-stained glass shattered all over them. When the broken rain finally stopped, they were now standing on the humid roots of the inverted Ceiba Tree hanging over the Necropolis of Mictlán. Above them stood the mighty Pillars of Earth, extending endlessly into the eternal abyss of shadows.
"This world is tainted beyond repair. Why do you insist on it? Valhalla is just a faint memory, lost forever, and soon Mictlán will follow. Yet the Sillicon Nornir foretold me it would be a witch who would show me the way to a new age. Whether you accepted or not, this was Fate." He extended his hand to Cristina.
"Let this world burn, Cristina. Let the Fifth Sun and the Nine Worlds die, and from their ashes we shall build something new. Something more beautiful than ever. Mictlán and Valhalla shall rise together. Here we will build the Ark carrying the worthy to the new world, Idavoll… Avalon."
Above Thorsten, a colossal wolf with translucent, sanguineous fur rose. It was the spectre of Fenrir, eyeing the Pillars with frenetic hunger; its jaws dripping saliva in bloodlust and anticipation. "The old world is dying and the new world struggles to be born…" the Hersir grinned manically like the jaws of a wolf, "now is the time of monsters."
Cristina looked very small, faced against the giant warrior and the gaping jaws of the beastly incarnation of entropy. Still, she began to laugh, blood dripping from her nostrils. "So you have given up on this world, and this is why you want to start Ragnarok. Good grief." She spat a bloody glob at his opponent’s feet. "You know what, Thorsten? For a second, I thought you were making sense… and then you came up with this nihilist bullshit. Give me a fucking break! Pathetic…"
"I have brought with me the Wolf that will devour the Sun and the Moon. One way or another, Ragnarok is inevitable."
"You are forgetting something."
"Am I?"
"You are not the only one with a pet."
It emerged from the shadow of time, the stealthy silhouette had been stalking its foe, waiting for the perfect time to ambush it. When the moment came, it sprang from its dark hiding place, madly howling with fangs bared. Xolotl, Lord of Monstrosities, bit Fenrir in the neck, and the Hersir writhed as if he could feel such pain. The two primordial canids clashed in a violent embrace, and the cacophony of their howls and barks reached the deepest confines of the universe.
"Also," the witch stood and smiled defiantly, "your gods never went silent. You were just too stubborn to listen!"
Cristina raised her hand, and the old rusty hammer materialized from a cloud of electrons and quarks. "Impossible," muttered the Hersir, still recovering his breath.
Cristina hit Thorsten in the ribs, and sparks and thunder illuminated the primordial darkness. For the first time in centuries, the Vessel of Fenrir felt true pain again.
"I wonder if those nanomachines can withstand this level of electrical power. Only one way to find out." And she kept hammering the Hersir, each strike a lightning bolt of thousands of volts. And every time the hammer hit the vessel, a thunderbolt struck the dire wolf’s skin as well; Fenrir howled in rage and pain as Xolotl's jaws and claws tore away his burned flesh.
Overwhelmed, Thorsten tried to back away, but the ancient roots of the world-tree came to life, entangling his arms and legs. "These are the roots of Mictecacíhuatl. Perhaps my gods are stronger than they look," Cristina smirked, "Now, kneel."
"You know that is not happening!"
"I said: Kneel!"
The roots pulled Thorsten down, and he finally fell to his knees. He sighed, "So it had to be this way."
The nanotech's hardened fiber was no more; the electrical shock had disabled it, softening the Hersir's impenetrable skin. Cristina picked one of the obsidian blades broken from the macuahuitl and made a wide cut in Thorsten's chest. She then reached her hand deep inside. As she did it, she felt the void of darkness burning her skin as the howls of Fenrir became increasingly erratic and pitiful.
But she didn't stop. With all of her strength, the witch grabbed and pulled the still pulsating heart of the Hersir. Holding his heart, he saw visions of the past: a burning village, a small child taken from his family, centuries of war hardening him to become the vessel of the Wolf. "If Valhalla is what you want, then I shall give it to you!" And she stabbed the heart with the obsidian blade.
"Cristina…" There was no anger or grief in Thorsten's voice. Instead, there was… relief, "Thanks." That was his final word, and his body fell lifeless. Cristina turned her head to face Xolotl, standing triumphantly with the bloodied head of Fenrir hanging from its jaws. The defeated specter howled one last time before dissipating back into entropy. Cristina reached out her hand to pat Xolotl's nose, and the eyeless guard dog of the Underworld nodded to the witch. Then, he turned around to return to his dwelling in the depths of Time. Cristina closed her eyes and breathed. When she opened them, she was back at Mictlán, surrounded by the bewildered spectators.
"Cristina! You did it!" Her friends rushed to hug her, and they almost lost their balance. Even the Pale Lady and some alebrijes joined the group hug.
"Sifvar!" Nate had somewhat recovered from her punch, more or less managing to stand, "They're distracted! I command you to attack! We have to avenge Hersir Thorsten." Amelia materialized behind the former regional president and grabbed him by the neck. Sifvar walked next to his ear. "In case you don't understand what Amelia is communicating, I'll spell it to you: Don't you dare say his name. If you ever manage to be one tenth of the man Thorsten was, then perhaps your life would be worth a dime, maggot. The Hersir gave us one last order, and we are obeying him. Till the end." La Llorona dematerialized again, and Hansen dropped to his knees, sobbing.
The Valkyrie turned around to face Cristina, who had broken free from the celebration to seal the negotiations.
"You… you bested the Hersir in combat…" Sivfar spoke in a mix of shock, rage, and admiration.
"Are you leaving, Raven?"
"We are. But I'm taking the Hersir's body with me. That is not a question."
"Be my guest," replied the witch.
It took eight of Sivfar's men and an unusually large body bag to carry Thorsten's body away. As the Ravens walked away, Amelia appeared next to Sivfar, who had turned around to address the witch one last time: "Comandanta Cristina, the next time we meet… I'll kill you."
"Say whatever makes you feel better, bitch. Just fuck off already." Cristina returned the murderous gaze of the shield-maiden with equal intensity and hate.
"War is over!" The Pale Lady shouted with an ancient, otherworldly voice that rang with the force of a chorus of thousands of souls, its echo stretching into the depths of infinity. She had stepped between the two would-be opponents, who in turn recoiled instinctively. Then, she returned to her usual soft and gentle tone and spoke to the valquirie and her companion, "Sivfar, Amelia, queridas… As the Queen of Death, it is my duty to remind you that it is beneath both the Valkyrie and the Cihuateoteo to be slaves of the Raven. Break away before you follow your hersir."
La Llorona's ghostly face showed no emotion, but she lowered her gaze slightly. The valkyrie merely turned her back on the Lady, ignoring her words. "Let's go, Amelia."
And as the last Raven left Mictlán never to return again, Cristina finally fell to her knees. She was about to cry, she could finally breathe free, she could finally… finally get some fucking rest.
Cristina woke up in an elegant room; she recognized it as one of the guest suites of the Lady's Art Deco palace.
The door opened, and the Pale Lady walked in, followed by the purple capybara butler.
"Good morning, Lady Cristina. Would you like some coffee and brunch?" asked the capybara.
"Don't call me… You know what… yeah fuck it, give me everything."
The butler bowed and then pranced out of the room.
"He means well," said the Pale Lady as she sat on the side of the bed.
"Did all of that really happen?" Cristina had awoken with this strange, surreal feeling that the last few months, years… perhaps her whole life had been nothing but a dream.
"Cristina, querida, thanks for everything." The Holy Death took her hand. "There is no way we will ever be able to pay you."
"It is not necessary to pay, I did this as a promise, do you remember?" It was all real, she finally believed. "But I would have done it anyway; this is what I do. This is what Las Víboras do. We kick oppressors and fascists' asses wherever we find them."
The Lady laughed, "You and your friends are really something else."
"Yes, they are the best… My friends! Where are they? Is everyone safe?"
"Worry not, they are getting some well-deserved rest just like you. Soon we'll be having a big feast to celebrate this victory!"
"Amazing!" Cristina couldn't remember the last time she had a decent meal. "I need some good food! What are you having?"
"The main course will be pozole…"
"A huevo!"
"Made from the flesh of our dead enemies…"
"…"
"There will also be a vegan option if you prefer that."
"Thanks."
"Anyways, I'll be on my way. Need to supervise the xolotls so they don't eat all the ingredients before we can cook," the Paly Lady stood graciously and walked to the door. "Meanwhile, you get more rest, querida."
"Wait, Catrina!" Cristina said as the Lady was about to leave the room.
"Yes, querida?" replied the Holy Death.
"I have been thinking about his words. He was an evil, broken, deranged man, but at least on some level, his rambling made sense. We won today… but what will come tomorrow? We can't keep like this forever."
"Atl tlachinolli, Cristina. Sometimes, the only way forward is to embrace the paradox. In the wise words of a trickster: 'To be seen, you have to cover your face… to be named, you have to deny your own name, you gamble your present to secure a future, and… to live… you die.'"
"I know that speech, Catrina…"
"Maybe the way forward is to protect what we have to the last end. Or maybe we have to learn to let things go. Or perhaps there is another unknown option, but whatever the case is…"
"We will decide for ourselves."
"Indeed, querida. Indeed."
When the butler capybara came back with the coffee and pan de muerto, he found Cristina already asleep. I guess she can ask her pyromaniac friend to heat the coffee when she wakes up, he thought as he left the tray on the nightstand.
"Oh, you are here! I didn't notice you before. Pardon me, querida, for not giving you a proper welcome. Are you here to join the celebrations?
"I'm not here to party, Catrina."
"Cristina would certainly be very happy to see you…"
"I’ve fulfilled my promise. Now is just a turn."
"I know you won't listen, but… may I give you one last warning before you fuck everything again?"
"I'm not in the mood for this. Answer my question, Lady of the Death: Where is Gears?"